Our Days Are Numbered
by Fulgance
Summary: Despite her relationship with Ron, Hermione just can't stay away. "This is the last time, Malfoy." "I know. It always is, with you." Thirteen times and counting.
1. Public Enemy Number One

**Warnings:**

Infidelity. On both sides.

Sexual situations (not _that_ graphic). I rated this M because the rating system is so iffy, but if you're old enough to be called a teenager, you can deal with this. I was reading stuff much hotter when I was thirteen... *clears throat* Never mind, read on...

Profanity (yeah, right. Even a twelve-year-old wouldn't need a warning for this one. But, yeah. This fic has a 100% chance of dropping a few F-bombs.).

**Updates:** Will be updated twice a week, at least. There are thirteen chapters, total, of varying lengths (they're all fairly short-ish). The end product will probably be slightly over 10k words. The first ten chapters are written.

**Note:** This was _such_ a spur-of-the-moment thing. I wrote it in a couple of days (nights). I needed to get some Dramione out of my system.

* * *

**Public Enemy Number One**

* * *

They would probably never know how exactly it happened, that first time. They would never be able to explain it to anyone else – hell, they would never even try. But there they were, snogging the life out of each other in the Room of Requirement. And she was loving every second of it.

Later on, she would think back to that first time and wonder about it. She would put it down to the fact that she hadn't seen Ron in months, because he had started training to be an Auror and she had come back to Hogwarts to pass her N.E.W.T.s, and that their relationship had waxed and waned in the few, crazy, nightmarish hours of the Final Battle. A single kiss had begun it all, and then Fred had died and Ron had changed and she had become unable to coax him into a conversation, let alone a relationship. She would put it down to the fact that Malfoy had also changed, but in the opposite way, in the same way she had; a change that had hollowed him out and left him broody and guilt-racked, but also, somehow, stronger and more mature. She would put it down to the fact that Malfoy was _there_, that they had become study partners, then almost friends, and that only he knew how to break into the Room of Requirement when she was in there, looking for some time alone. She would put it down to the party she'd just left, celebrating their last night at Hogwarts before they left forever. She would put it down to Malfoy's grin and the taste of alcohol on his breath and the feel of his hair between her fingers – but by the time she had noticed all that, it was too late, and she'd been had.

Now, though, she focused on the moment. And the moment was crazy. It was insane. It was fiery and passionate and everything she'd always dreamt of. When his hands slid underneath her shirt, alarm bells did not ring off in her head. Instead, she closed her eyes and drew him closer still, until their bodies were touching in every imaginable way. She tugged his own shirt over his head, breaking the kiss for a few seconds before his lips came crashing back onto hers, hard, fierce, _hot_.

It lasted a few more minutes, until he raised his arms, which had been wrapped around her waist or touching her breasts, to lightly brush her cheek with his thumb. She opened her eyes, and saw a flash of black out of the corner of her eye.

She stopped abruptly and stepped back.

"Wha – " He followed her gaze. "Oh."

"Oh," she agreed.

She tried not to stare, but found she was unable to. The pale flesh of the inside of his left forearm was branded with a black skull and a snake. The Dark Mark grinned up at her, making her stomach churn. She suddenly felt ill.

"Malfoy –"

"It's all right," he cut in. "I understand."

"No, wait. Let me –"

"Have a nice summer, Granger."

"_Malfoy_," she said, exasperated, reaching out to catch his arm as he turned to leave. "Shut _up_."

And he did, and Hermione was so surprised she just stood there, staring at him. It took her a minute to collect her thoughts.

"I didn't believe Harry," she said, "when he kept insisting, in sixth year, that you were a Death Eater."

Draco snorted. "For once Potter had something right. Why didn't you believe him?"

"You just... didn't seem the type."

He arched an eyebrow at her. How he managed to look so calm, so completely in control of the situation, even though he'd just come out of a snog and was _shirtless_, was beyond Hermione.

"I never..." She looked for the right words. "I never thought you were cruel. Misguided, yes, and prejudiced, and unpleasant, and arrogant, but not cruel. I thought about what Death Eaters did and I didn't think you were capable of it. Even when Harry told us you'd tried to kill Dumbledore, I didn't think..." She looked at him. "I always knew you hated me and my blood, but I never thought you hated it _that_ much. Not enough to take the Mark."

"Your blood isn't dirty."

The words fell from his lips quickly, naturally, and from the look on his face, he was as surprised as she was that he had let them slip.

"I know that," she said.

"Well, I didn't," he said; now that he had begun, he seemed unable to stop. "I used to believe... Well, you know what I used to believe. But I've seen your blood."

She flinched at the memory. _Bellatrix, above her, slicing through her skin with her wand... The Cruciatus Curse, over and over again, until she thought she would rather die than take it one more time... Bellatrix's questions... The frightened look in Malfoy's eyes..._

"I've seen your blood, and it wasn't dirty," Malfoy said, bringing her back to the present. "It was red like mine. And I..." He seemed lost for words for a second. "I never wanted her to torture you," he said finally. "I swear, all I was thinking at the time was stop, stop, _stop_." He met her gaze, and his eyes were wide. "Your blood isn't dirty. But mine is. I'm the one who's branded. Tainted. And my family..."

He shivered, then stopped. He was still looking at her, his grey eyes boring into her. On an impulse, she leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Somehow, her lips brushing against his cheek felt more personal, more intimate than what they had just done.

"We're good, Malfoy," she said. "That's all in the past. All right?"

The moment was broken, but she had to tell him – he had to know – that she forgave him.

He raised two fingers to his cheek, and the smallest of smiles tugged the corners of his lips upward. "All right, Granger."

* * *

Malfoy married Astoria Greengrass three months later. At around the same time, she got engaged to Ron.

And that should have been that, but it wasn't. It was just the beginning.

* * *

**Next chapter will be up in a couple of hours.**


	2. It Takes Two to Tango

**I got the idea for this fic while researching idioms (don't ask). I settled on number idioms, one for each chapter – one, two, three, _et cetera_. Chapter One was **Public Enemy Number One**, in reference to Draco. Chapter two is **It Takes Two to Tango**... it means that this is both their faults', not just Draco's.**

* * *

**It Takes Two to Tango**

* * *

There shouldn't have been a second time. She had done everything she could to avoid it. Not because of his Mark, because she had said the truth back then – what was in the past would remain in the past. No, something else entirely held her back. It may have been a shred of common decency. He was married, and she was engaged. And, yes, it had been a rushed marriage on his part, half-arranged by their parents, to a pure-blood witch whom, he asserted, he only liked as a friend, but there was no denying that Astoria was stunning and that she harboured at least some romantic feelings for her spouse. Or that it would be wrong for Malfoy to cheat on the woman he'd sworn fidelity to. And, yes, her engagement had been rushed, too, but that summer she had so been elated to find Ron almost healed, almost the same as before Fred's death, that she had said yes without thinking when he had proposed. She knew that what they had was still fragile, though, and there was no sane reason to jeopardise all that for a fling with a married man.

And yet here she was, pinned to a wall, grey eyes hazy with lust looking at her as though they could eat her alive. Grey, not blue, and the kiss, when it came, was more forceful than any she'd ever shared with Ron.

The thought of Ron made her pull away. "Malfoy, I can't do this. Not again."

He hardly seemed to hear her. His lips left her lips and trailed down her neck, sending a hot rush to her belly.

"Malfoy, _no_."

"You _want_ this."

And she did. There was, after all, a reason why she'd avoided him all these months. She didn't trust herself alone with him anymore, not since the _moment_ they'd shared in the Room of Requirement. The sight of the Dark Mark had brought her to her senses again, but now that she knew that about him, would it be enough without the surprise factor? She thought not. Hell, she was sure not. There was nothing rational about it, but she thought of the _moment_ often. Of Malfoy, with whom she'd shared many moments that year, in the library or the Room of Requirement, and whom she had come to know, gradually, and maybe like. It would have been easier if she hated him, but she couldn't even claim that anymore. It would have been easier if she had been drunk, but she hadn't been anywhere near. It would have been easier if she had been able to blame it on temporary insanity, somehow. Because the alternative was admitting that she had actually _wanted_ Draco Malfoy so badly she'd taken his shirt off. And if she _had_ wanted him, then who was to say she wouldn't again?

"Malfoy – _Draco_," she gasped, more out of surprise and indignation than anything, as he rolled one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. "Stop it, _now_."

He kissed her again, their hips met, and she arched her back wantonly for more contact. Still crazy. Still insane. Gods, had she grown up _at all_ since leaving Hogwarts? It seemed like Malfoy could rob her of her ability to think straight. She didn't _want_ to think. She just wanted to live in the moment. This stupid, stupid moment that should never have happened. Why had she been in the entrance hall, and not at her desk, when Malfoy swept into the Ministry? Why had she been unable to look away when he asked the secretary where to go for his appointment to discuss the Rehabilitation Centre for Trauma Victims his parents were co-funding along with the Ministry as part of their punishment after the war, why had she offered to show him the way, and ohgodswhatwashedoingwithhis_mouth_. She moaned.

"Stop it?" Malfoy repeated, amused.

"You're married," she said, gritting her teeth.

"Not really."

Well, there wasn't really anything she could say to that. _Not really_ seemed like the appropriate way to describe Malfoy's marriage.

"_I'm_ engaged."

Come to think of it, _Not really_ could apply to her situation, too.

Malfoy seemed to agree. "You could always call it off."

"For what?"

"For me."

She broke away, finally, and looked at him. "For _you_?" She laughed, a bitter laugh. "You're _married_," she said again.

He was silent. His hand was still up her shirt, caressing her breast lightly with one thumb.

"Why?" she asked, knowing it was stupid. She shouldn't ask, shouldn't even be _considering_ this. "What could you give me that Ron can't?"

He paused before he answered, as though weighing his words before he said them. Then he grinned. "Passion."

She laughed again. "Passion isn't enough, Malfoy. I want a life."

"A life with Weasley."

"Yes."

He pulled back, sighing. "Okay."

"Okay?" she repeated, feeling strangely... let-down. "That's it?"

"Well, what did you expect me to say?"

"I guess I thought you'd be more... _passionate_ about this."

Heat flashed in his eyes as though she'd just challenged him (and maybe she had). "I can do passionate," he said, his voice very low.

And he leaned down to kiss her again, a heated kiss that awoke something in her lower belly. She thought she might have moaned, which was embarrassing. One of her hands rose of its own accord to wrap itself around his neck, her fingers entangled in his silky hair, and she parted her lips for him.

That was when he broke away and straightened himself, adjusting his clothes. "I can do passionate, but it takes two to tango, Granger."

And he left.


	3. Third Time Lucky

**Well, you all know this one. (I mean the idiom.) Guess what's going to happen? Yeah, this is where the M rating kicks in. (Again, it's nothing hard.)  
**

**To the **Anonymous** reviewer who said that Ron is an idiot, I whole-heartedly agree.**

* * *

**Third Time Lucky**

* * *

Her engagement was a long one, if you compared it to his. She was engaged to Weasley for two years, eight months, and twenty-six days. Plenty of time for her to back out of it, but she didn't. To the newspapers, she cited focusing on the beginning of her career at the Ministry as an excuse, as well as the fact that the war was still fresh in everyone's minds. At some point she stopped talking to the newspapers, point blank. It came as a surprise to everyone when the couple revealed to have finally settled on a date.

During those two years, eight months, and twenty-six days, he saw Granger practically every week. He told himself their encounters were coincidences, but in truth, he was consciously seeking her out. He had been terrified, at the end of their last year at Hogwarts, of losing the tentative friendship they'd managed to build. Because there was _something_ there, a strange, absolutely _insane_ link they'd established. He was a pure-blood, she was a Muggle-born, and he had never met someone he felt so _alive_ with. Astoria, his wife, could calm him down with a touch of her hand and a quiet word; Granger, with the same touch, set his blood on fire.

She worked at the Ministry, a very un-glamourous, insignificant job at the Office for House-Elf Relocation, which was where most of the youngest recruits to the Ministry started off. What put Granger apart from the rest was that she actually liked job. A wind of change was blowing over the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, with Hermione Granger right in the middle of it all. The department was showing a new-found activity, engaging itself in law projects and official debates and attempting to broach communication gaps between species. Even though Granger was officially tasked with house-elf issues, she had been out on the field talking with centaurs, werewolves, and goblins, and she had made such noise about the incompetence of the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures that all executions had been banned for a year while an investigation was led.

Almost looking for an excuse to see Granger, Draco had used his name and what remained of his fortune to support her many endeavours. The Malfoys may have been looked down at by the majority of the wizarding world, but they were still a renowned pure-blood family that had always stuck by tradition, and the people Granger was trying to convince weren't a part of the majority. They were the old pure-blood families, prejudiced beyond measure, who looked down their nose at this little filthy Muggle-born upstart. When the Malfoy heir publicly endorsed Granger's proposition for a law on the treatment of house-elves, it made enough of a difference to many families, and that was when Draco understood that he could use his name to his advantage. He acted as an unofficial and unpaid liaison agent between the Ministry and the old families. Granger called on him when she wanted his opinion on how a pure-blood supremacist would react to this or that idea, or when she needed to contact a family that would never respect a Muggle-born Ministry official. And Draco found himself enjoying the job, or pastime, or whatever it was. He had become useful. And that was how Granger had brought out the good in him.

It was also how Draco had managed to become closer to her. Their tentative friendship had become more solid, more resilient, even though it was now based on a working relationship that had its ups and its down depending on how stressful the case at hand was. Her work provided opportunities for many jokes and had invited trust between them... well, a certain kind of trust.

They had gone out for a drink once or twice after a day of work, and he knew she enjoyed his company almost as much as he enjoyed hers. But she never crossed the barrier of impropriety, and nothing she ever said could have been considered even mildly flirtatious, _because she was engaged_ and had enough moral standards not to cheat on her fiancé. He could tell she thought about the kisses they had shared, sometimes, when she looked at him, but she never hinted in any way that another one would be welcome. So Draco did nothing, and for a while, he thought the strange lust he harboured for her was fading.

He was wrong, obviously. He realised exactly how wrong the day she returned from a meeting with a pure-blood family whose house-elf had died from a self-inflicted punishment for disobeying orders. Granger came back furious, practically spitting fire, which he had expected. She had, against his counsel, gone to meet them personally, and he had known their views would clash violently. That was why he was _here_, for Merlin's sake. But she hadn't listened, and now she was back, pacing the room, her hands behind her back, red-faced and furious.

"That sour-faced _bitch_!" she said finally, spinning on her heel to look straight at him.

He almost flinched at the venom in her tone, even though he knew it wasn't directed at him but at Lornella Greenfeather, the sixty-year-old matron at the head of the pure-blood Greenfeather family.

"Do you know what she _said_? Do you know what she told me? She said – she said – she said that poor thing _deserved_ it. That he was a useless servant who wasn't fit to live under the same roof as her if he couldn't fulfil his purpose and that – that it was the only way for bad house-elves to go! She didn't even say 'he,' she kept saying 'it,' like Pilmy was an _animal_ or a _machine_ or something. Because he broke a _vase_, Malfoy! He was punishing himself for something a simple _Reparo_ could have fixed!"

"Granger," he said, his voice steady, wanting to calm her down, "you know how these people –"

"And _then_," she said, cutting him off, "then she told me it was _none of my business_! She said the Ministry had no right to be putting their noses into the old families' business, that it had always been their _right_ to treat their staff as they saw fit, that some of them were considering a _campaign_ against the office to – to _'fight for our rights,'_ she said. Her _rights_! What about the elves'? What about Pilmy's right to life?" Her eyes shone with brilliant tears.

"Granger," he said again, "Lornella is twisted, I know. But you've always known people would react like this. I know how you feel, but you have to understand that not everyone shares your ideals. You're going to be working _against_ them, and you have to be prepared to deal with what they have to say about it."

Granger blew out a sigh. "I know," she said, and it sounded like the sigh had deflated her anger, leaving her empty. "I know."

She stopped pacing and sat down on the very edge of her desk, facing him.

"That's not all she said to me," she said, her voice very soft. "She also mentioned my blood."

He felt his own blood ignite at her words as an icy hand wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed. Hard. He'd expected this one, too.

"Granger –"

"It's been so long," she said, "since someone last called me a Mudblood. Not since the war. I'd forgotten what it felt like. And... the _look_ on her face when she realised who I was... it was like I was _scum_."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You were right, Malfoy... you were right," she said. "I shouldn't have gone. _I_'m sorry. I should have listened to you."

She had looked unbelievably sexy in her anger just two minutes ago, with her eyes flashing and her mouth set in a thin, hard line. Now, forlorn and apologetic, she looked so fragile that he wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms and make her forget.

He caught her by the waist and kissed her spontaneously. He half-expected her to push him away, but she didn't; instead, she tilted her head back slightly to allow him better access and melted into the kiss, pressing the length of her body against his. They fit together perfectly, as he had known they would.

And that was how it happened, their first time together. She, sitting on the edge of her desk, her legs spread, her hands wandering; he standing, kissing her face and neck, his hands squeezing her ass. They were almost fully dressed, her robes just pushed up out of the way, but they touched each other all over, as though they would never get enough. Each brush of her hand left behind a warm trail on his skin; when they wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss, he slid a finger inside her and, at the same time, brushed the tip of his thumb lightly against her clitoris. She moaned into the kiss, pushing her hips down against him for more. He raised his mouth off of her and kissed her cheek, then slowly worked upward, leaving a trail of kisses behind him. When her eyes fluttered close as he kissed her eyelids... that was when he realised what was happening. She was giving in to – whatever this was. She trusted him. She wanted him.

He went on touching her, tentatively, almost reverently. He thought that at any moment she might regain her senses and push him away, but she never did. She arched her head back as he trailed the fingers of his free hand over every inch of her body, his other hand sliding in and out of her. When she fell over the edge, tightening around his fingers, he captured her lips in a fierce, brazen kiss... and then he backed away a little, sliding his hand out of her, thinking it was over, but she reached out and brought him close again, invitingly.

She was the one who pushed his robes up and pulled his pants down. She was the one who wrapped her legs around him and pulled him to her. She was the one who closed her eyes and let her head fall back as he entered her. It was quick, fast, and hard, and this time when she came, her back arched and she let out a moan, but she didn't kiss him.

She _had_ come to her senses, finally. She wasn't looking at him, avoiding his gaze, focusing on the wall behind him. She looked gorgeous, her chest heaving, her lips slightly parted in an expression of wonder, her mascara – _you wear make-up?_ – smeared around her eyes, her hair all messed up. The words that fell from her lips ruined the portrait.

"That was a mistake."

He almost sighed, but caught himself in time. Instead he backed away and rearranged his robes. "I know," he said, tearing his gaze away from her.

"It can't happen again."

"I _know_."

"This doesn't change anything."

He snorted and looked at her again. _Gods above, it should be illegal to look like that_.

"It changes _everything_, Granger."

* * *

**This was not meant to be a lemon, and it didn't turn out that way. I had a hard time writing the scene, because I felt like I was skirting the line between M and MA... however, I have finally settled on a "soft" scene that I feel is very fully M (maybe even a high T) and not at all MA, and I'm happy with it. It's the most explicit scene in this fic (some may end up about as explicit, but definitely not more), by the way, because I don't intend to violate the rules. (Though many MA fics are very good.) All I can think of is what my mother's reaction would be if she read this. Oh well, now I just have another reason not to show anyone what I write.**

**Thank you for reading, I noticed a lot of people Alert'ing and (already!) Favorite'ing and that's great. The next chapter will be posted later in the week, maybe Friday or Saturday.  
**

**I've hit a sort of writer's block at chapter 12! It's so weird. I've been writing this for about a week or something and the words have been just flowing onto the page by themselves that entire time, but chapter 13 is proving troublesome.  
**


	4. Four Letter Word

**I think the title is self-explanatory this time! *cough***

* * *

**Four-Letter Word**

* * *

He almost laughed when she invited him to her wedding. _Invited him_. He would never know how she had convinced Weasley to accept. What had she said? "By the way, Ron, I'd like to invite Draco Malfoy. You know, the one you hated from the moment you first laid eyes on him? Yeah, that's the one." She extended the invitation to his wife, who was a bit surprised – _I didn't know you had friends outside of Slytherin_, she said. Yeah, well, neither did he. And Hermione Granger of all people – Astoria was bemused. When had that happened? she wanted to know.

"Last year," he said. "I guess we just got around to talking for the first time."

Mercifully, that was enough of an explanation for Astoria.

"Well, are you going?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said, looking down at the card in his hands. "I don't think anyone would be very happy to see me. Us."

Astoria's hand reached out to touch his arm lightly. She was a small thing, two years younger than him. She had left Hogwarts at only just seventeen to marry him. He loved her, because she was a constant in his life, solid and loving, always. She knew when to comfort him, and when to leave him alone. She knew when to laugh and when to say nothing. She knew him.

"Maybe it's time you started making them forget," she suggested. "Go, and show them another side of you."

He smiled at her. "You're just saying that because you want an opportunity to wear the pearl necklace I gave you for your birthday."

She laughed softly. "Maybe. You can't know, can you?"

* * *

They did go, and Astoria wore her pearls and her pale pink silk dress. It was a summer wedding, and the couple had elected for it to happen outside, in the sun. He walked right up to the rows of chairs set up with his arm around Astoria's waist, and when all eyes turned to them he leaned in and whispered in her ear, "You shouldn't have worn that. You look too gorgeous; you'll upstage the bride."

She laughed, as he wanted her to, even though the joke wasn't funny. He just wanted to pretend the reason everyone was staring wasn't him. But when she laughed, the stares became even more insistent, until Draco began to wish he hadn't come. He led Astoria a little way to the side, then into the hall that had been rented for supper later this evening. It was cool and airy inside. He turned to face his wife and opened his mouth.

"I'm proud of you," Astoria said before he could say anything. "I know it can't be easy. But she _invited_ you. There must be a reason. You have as much right to be here as they do."

He closed his mouth, wondering how she had known. Had she felt it in the tension of his arm around her waist that he wanted nothing more than to run?

Astoria reached up on her tiptoes and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Go back out there," she murmured. "Sit down, smile, and pretend everything is all right... and maybe everything will turn out to actually _be_ all right."

"Yeah, that'll happen."

Astoria started to say something, but she stopped suddenly. Her eyes left Draco's face and drifted over his shoulder, and she smiled. Something coiled tightly in Draco's stomach as he spun around slowly to see what she was looking at.

Granger was there, looking absolutely stunning in a white, floor-length dress with a very fitted bodice. Her hair was swept back loosely, a few stray strands framing her face. She wore no jewellery and no make-up. She was gorgeous.

"Hello, Malfoy," she said, her voice even. "Mrs. Malfoy."

"Astoria," his wife said, stepping forward. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise."

There was an awkward moment during which all Draco could look at was Hermione. Their eyes met, hers wide like a deer caught in headlights – a Muggle reference she had taught him –, his narrowed and contemplative. Astoria, bless her, excused herself to let them 'catch up.' Her hand brushed lightly against Draco's arm again and she gave him an encouraging look before she left. He couldn't help but grasp the irony of it. Did she know? Did she suspect? He brushed the thoughts away.

He was still staring. So was she. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"You look... good," he said.

She smiled and raised a hand to her hair self-consciously. "Thank you," she said. "So... how have you been?"

"Well enough."

"Astoria seems..." The word seemed to stick in her throat, but she forced it out anyway. "Lovely."

"She is."

She stood there, just looking at him, for a moment that seemed to stretch out forever. He couldn't bring himself to look away. From the look of things, she couldn't, either, and that gave him an advantage.

"Having second thoughts, are you, Granger?"

She finally broke their staring gaze, turning her head away abruptly. "Of course not," she said, too quickly.

"Yes, you are," he said, drawing closer to her. He saw her entire body stiffen, but she made no move to back away from him. "You're getting cold feet... you're scared." He stepped forward again, then again, until he was close enough to smell the light floral scent of her perfume. "Have you given any thought to what I told you once?" he asked recklessly. "Have you thought about..." He lowered his voice. "… _passion_?"

"Fuck you."

Her wide-eyed expression told him he'd hit the nail on the head. He could have gloated over it; in fact, he did, in a way.

"Been there, done that," he said, breathing her scent in. "Or don't you remember?"

He kissed her, and like always, she let him. Her soft lips parted for him, and she melted into the kiss, running her hands lightly, teasingly up his sides. He kept his own hands to himself, not wanting to touch her wedding dress, and focused entirely on the sensation of having her lips on his. But it ended all too soon; she came to her senses and pushed him away.

"That was the last time, Malfoy."

"I know."

"I love Ron."

"I know."

Thirty minutes later, he watched in silence as she married another man.

He noted – small consolation it was – that she was going to keep her last name.


	5. Take Five

**_To take five_ means to take a break. Not exactly in this sense, though.**

* * *

**Take Five**

* * *

They were naked in bed.

It wasn't often they took the time to make their way to the bed. The first couple times this had happened, he had kissed her, then shagged her up against the wall. Another time they had done it on the floor. Yet another, she had been sitting on the table. It had always been hard, fast fucking, because she refused to call it lovemaking, and somehow a bed seemed opposed to that.

This had been going on for almost a year, now. He remembered the day they had begun their illicit affair. The affair she had never wanted to exist, the affair she had fought against tooth and nail for a few... weeks... before giving in. It had happened at the Ministry, again. Something had snapped inside her, and she had given herself to him. Somehow, it had become a regular thing, though they now kept it outside of her office hours and workplace. She came to Malfoy Manor, in his room. Draco and Astoria had separate rooms, most times, because he had nightmares and she was an insomniac and they both hated sharing a bed with someone else. Not that Granger had ever asked. They didn't talk about things like that. He knew it would make her uncomfortable. She believed him when he said they wouldn't be bothered, and that was that.

It sounded dirty, cruel, callous. But it wasn't. It was nothing like that. It wasn't a business arrangement – two o'clock, my house, fifteen minutes for a quickie, see you Friday. It was always a spur-of-the-moment thing. They still worked together, though less often now that the pure-bloods were becoming less resilient to the Ministry's pressure. They still went out for a drink, some days. And sometimes it ended up at his house. Most times, not. In the year this had been going on, they had only slept together a handful of times. That didn't make it any better, but whenever it happened, it felt _right_ to Draco. He knew Astoria didn't expect him to be faithful – though she would have liked him to be –, so he hesitated a lot less than Granger. If it had been up to him, they would have been in bed every day. It wasn't, though. Granger sometimes gave in to impulses, but she would never have accepted a commitment, because she was already bound to one.

This past month, Granger had come to him twice. A record. Each time she had been slightly different than usual, more tender, more sensitive somehow. The first time, Draco knew, they had _made love_. It didn't matter what she wanted to call it. That was what it had been. Gentle, slow, passionate. You couldn't call what had happened fucking.

Today had been the second time, and it had been even more mind-blowing than the first. It was one of the few times they had made it all the way to the bed, and the first time they stayed in it when they were done. Even better, she remained in his arms after the feeling of bliss left her, lay her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. Her legs were covered by the sheets, and they were both naked and sweaty underneath. Draco listened to her heart, beating steadily against his own, and felt the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. He listened for so long he thought she had fallen asleep. He could fall asleep, too. With her by his side, the nightmares wouldn't even try to come. But if he fell asleep, this moment would end too quickly. He wanted to make it last. He wanted to look at her, like this, forever.

There was a strand of hair falling into her eyes, clinging to her forehead because of the sweat. He reached out to gently push it back behind her ear.

Two words, spoken so softly he wouldn't have heard them if she hadn't been so close to him, shattered the perfect beauty of the moment.

"I'm pregnant," Granger said into his shoulder.

Two words that meant so much. Two words that ruined everything. Two words that reminded him that she wasn't his.

He wished she hadn't said them.

"I know."

It had been in the news. He hadn't mentioned it, but something told him that was the reason behind her changed attitude. Maybe it was the hormones. Maybe it was because she was going to leave him.

"We can't keep doing this, Malfoy."

"I know."

It wasn't his. It couldn't be. They always took the necessary precautions.

Why was he so fucking disappointed?

"I mean it. Whatever this thing was, it's over. We're over."

He sighed, then disentangled himself from her and sat up in the bed. He looked her right in the eye. "It's just a break. We both know you'll be back."

She wanted to say, _I won't_, but the words stuck in her throat.


	6. At Sixes and Sevens

**_To be at sixes and sevens_ is to be lost, confused.**

* * *

**At Sixes and Sevens**

* * *

Rose Meredeth Weasley was born on 27th February, 2006. She looked painfully like a Weasley with the fuzz of red hair on her head, but her face was all Granger. Not that Draco had ever seen her in _person_. He couldn't very well waltz into the hospital and ask to see Weasley's kid. Or into their home. But Granger had a framed picture on her desk, and that was how he knew. He noticed it the first time he had walked in after her return to work, three months after her child's birth. She was radiant and beaming that day, genuinely thrilled to be back at the office.

"You look... different," was the first thing that popped out of Draco's mouth.

She gave him an amused glance. "I missed you too," she said sarcastically.

Heat rose to his cheeks, but he smiled back. "I'm sure you did. Admit it, Granger, you didn't even think about me once."

"Well," she said, pretending to think hard, "I think I may have... _once_. Possibly when Rose woke me up at two in the morning and I was very, _very_ annoyed. I thought, now when have I felt like this before?" She laughed at the look on his face. "Oh, come here, Draco."

He walked over to her and gave her a quick hug. "I'm not so sure _I_ missed you."

"Of course not," she said, rolling her eyes and walking right past him.

He felt her hip brush against his as she did so, and turned to see what she was doing. She placed the picture frame on her desk, and he followed and positioned himself behind her to look at it.

"That's your kid?"

"Yes."

"She's beautiful."

Granger turned around to look at him and gave him a blissful smile. "I know."

"And... she's healthy?"

"She's fine. No problems at all. And she actually sleeps through the night. No waking up at two AM and thinking of you."

"Really."

"Yes, really."

"How sad."

"I know, right? Imagine sleeping through the night. It's so very dull." She sat down in her chair and let out a sigh. "I feel like it's been _years_. How is Astoria doing, by the way?"

There was a short, awkward silence. He thought, for a second, that she was trying to guilt-trip him. But he knew better; Granger didn't _do_ that. The question was asked out of genuine concern, as a new mother for a future mother.

"She'll be all right," he said. "We've had a Healer move in, though. We don't want to risk another miscarriage. He says her constitution is too frail and that that's why she's been having trouble. She's also not getting enough sleep. But he's confident that the baby will be all right, even after her fall last week."

He was unable to keep a slight tremor out of his voice as he spoke. He cared for Astoria, despite everything. And he cared for his unborn son.

"It's a boy, right?" Granger asked.

"Yes."

"What are you going to call him?"

A small smile played at the corners of his lips. "Astoria and I have agreed on Scorpius."

She laughed outright. "Oh my God. Malfoy, do you have any idea what that will do to the poor boy? Where did you _get_ that idea?"

"It's a constellation," he said, not offended.

He was glad she was laughing, actually. It seemed to relax the atmosphere between them.

"I know that," she said. "But... _Scorpius_!"

"Scorpius Hyperion," he specified.

"You're not serious. _How_ did you get Astoria to agree to that?"

He shrugged. "She likes it, actually. Thinks it sounds quite noble."

"And to think I used to think that _Draco_ was funny. You family has the _worst_ taste in baby names."

"Do you really think so? I'm sure the Weaslette would disagree."

Granger laughed again. "She's still not used to having a baby called Albus. Not that I blame her, of course. She should never have let Harry pick the name. She's started calling him Ally, but Harry disapproves."

She opened a drawer of her desk and pulled out the topmost file, starting to flick through the pages. He watched her silently, unsmilingly.

"I can only imagine how much I have to catch up on. I saw the law that was passed in March. It's a step, isn't it? I'm sure you had something to do with it. And Kingsley. I've thanked him already. I think I could really do something with this, and – oh my God, Malfoy, did _you_ do this?"

He smirked at her. "Did I do what?"

"_This_." She stared at the page she had just stopped on. "Is it –?"

"The twelve signatures you've been trying to get for a year," he said. "Yes. That's what it is. Twelve pure-blood families, agreeing to your terms. _Your_ terms. Says right here, _elaborated by the Ministry and the Junior Assistant at the Office for House-Elf Relocation, Hermione Granger_. They've signed a paper written up by a Muggle-born."

She stared at the page some more, then looked up at him in wonder. "I _never_ expected them to agree. How did you –?"

"That's for me to know and you to wonder, Granger."

She looked at him with such intensity that his grin wavered.

"What?" he asked. "It's a step, isn't it?"

"Malfoy, this is... this is _wonderful_. You have no idea..." She shook her head, looking stunned. "_Thank_ you."

"You're welcome."

She seemed lost for words for a moment. Her mouth opened, then closed.

"I... don't know what to say," she said finally. "Or do, or... How can I repay you for this, Malfoy?"

He looked away, feeling uncomfortable. "You don't need to."

"This is just so... _wonderful_," she said again. She seemed to make up her mind about something. "Ron and I... aren't really together anymore."

His head whipped around and he stared at her. "What?"

"We're taking some time apart."

His heart leapt in his throat, but he struggled to keep his voice steady. "You are?"

"Yes. Since Rose's birth. We love her, but I don't want to be in the kind of marriage that's welded together only because of the kids. And I've just..." She shrugged. "It's not just me. Ron feels the same. I think maybe we headed into this too quickly. It was fine at first, but then it just... fizzled out. We've been together for seven years. That's a long time. Maybe we'll get a divorce. I don't know. It's not working anymore."

"Did it ever?"

She smiled at him, a small, shy smile. "You tell me," she said softly.

He looked at her lips, which were parted invitingly, and shook his head. "It's not my business, Granger. And this isn't the time or place."

Disappointment flashed across her expression, but she gave a tight nod. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"One of us at least has to be reasonable."

"I'd never have guessed it would be you," Hermione said, letting herself fall into a chair. "If someone had told me, years ago, that..." She trailed off.

"I know," he said.

And then he did kiss her, like the idiot he was, because – who was he kidding? She was irresistible. To him, at least. And, yeah, it was her workplace, and he hadn't seen her in weeks (months), and they'd just agreed that they _shouldn't_. But sometimes your body overrules your brain, and that was happening to Draco right now.

He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, looking into her eyes.

"We shouldn't," Hermione said, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"Then tell me to stop," he breathed. "Just say the word, and I'll stop."

Her fingers were curled into fists on his chest, her eyes half-closed. "Why would I?"

His lips crashed onto hers again for a second hard, brief kiss.

"Tell me to stop," he said again when it ended.

"I should, shouldn't I?" Hermione said. "Now is not the time. I have work to do, and I'm being _paid_ for it. I'm still married. We should never..." She closed her eyes. "Oh, fuck it, Draco – _stop_."

He pulled away.

* * *

Later that day, she used Floo powder to get into the Manor, in the chamber right outside his bedroom. She stepped out, coughing slightly, brushing ash out of her eyes, and walked across the room straight into his arms. She laid her head against his chest.

"Malfoy... Can I sleep with you tonight?"

They slept. Fully dressed, with his arms around her, their faces inches apart, they sank into their first shared sleep. When he woke up the next morning to find the other side of the bed empty, he wasn't even disappointed. He felt as though their relationship had progressed to a new level of intimacy.

* * *

**I have some good news. The fic is officially complete with thirteen chapters and around 15k words, so you can be sure updates will be regular.**


	7. Seven Year Itch

**The "seven-year itch" refers to a married man starting to want other women after seven years of being with his wife. For a general time-line, in this fic Hermione got engaged when she finished Hogwarts the age of nineteen. She married Ron at twenty-two years old, and Rose was born when her mother was twenty-six. This chapter happens around a year after Rose's birth. It's not a very happy or romantic chapter this time.  
**

**And, yeah, the chapters do skim over a lot of time and the fic happens over _many_ years. And the POV changes. Many chapters are Draco's, as I'm sure you could tell. Hermione doesn't get another chapter until eleven, then she has a little bit of twelve, and thirteen, the last one, is all hers.  
**

**Next update at the beginning of next week. Thank you everyone for following, reviewing, and favorite'ing; this fic is on 50 Alerts lists with only six chapters and I'm flattered.  
**

* * *

**Seven-Year Itch**

* * *

Intimacy didn't mean anything, as it turned out. More than a year passed before the next time Granger came over to his house. In the meantime she had been promoted to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and he had had a son who was proving to be the delight of his eyes and who was more than enough to distract him from thoughts of Granger. Scorpius was beautiful, and he had his father's eyes, and Draco found himself acting a bit stupidly around him, to Astoria's delight. Scorpius was a boy who would carry on the Malfoy name. Scorpius had a frail health and the live-in Healer had stayed for three months after his birth. Scorpius contracted pneumonia and nearly died. Scorpius' first word had been 'more.'

He was everything his father had ever wished for, and more.

Granger had never met Scorpius. She had never even seen him, because Draco wasn't like her; he didn't walk around with a picture of his son. (He had, in the earlier months when Scorpius had been very ill, but Granger didn't need to know that.) She avoided asking questions, and they both knew why: it was terribly awkward to talk to your lover about the kids they'd had with someone else. But sometimes Draco, with the blinded foolishness of new parents, glided into that awkward territory and mentioned Scorpius, and she always listened with interest, sometimes adding something about her daughter.

Rose's first word had been 'stop,' and Draco had said, _"Well, at least we know who she got that from,"_ and there had been a _very_ awkward silence.

In the first few months following Granger's transfer to another department, things were very busy for her as she tried to gather all her files. The progress made with the centaurs, all her research on house-elves – everything had to be sorted through, then chucked away or filed into new folders if she could imagine a way to make a law out of it. She had told Draco she didn't want him around anymore, though not in so many words. At the time he hadn't minded because Scorpius had just relapsed, but when his son got better, he found himself mulling over what she had said.

_"I'll be fine, Malfoy. I don't need your help. Go back to your wife and son."_

She had been right, of course. He would have been useless at the filing stuff. His usefulness to Granger had always been the fact that he was a smooth talker who knew the rules of pure-blood etiquette. He had never even pretended to understand the way Granger classified everything into folders and arranged them by colour and alphabetical order. But... _"Go back to your wife and son."_ It wasn't possible that there _hadn't_ been something else behind those words. Resentment? Jealousy? Or just plain weariness? Was she sick of having him around?

When he realised he was obsessing over the question, he knew he'd been ensnared again. He had thought that, when her relationship with Weasley had become rocky, she would come back to him. She had even spoken about getting a _divorce_, for fuck's sake. But that hadn't happened. Instead she had told him, a few weeks later, _"Go back to your wife and son."_ They had hardly seen each other this past year, and for a while, Draco believed it was over for good. Scorpius' health had brought him and Astoria much closer. He was a parent now, and his life had acquired some stability. He felt normal and complete without Granger. For weeks, he managed to fool himself into believing he didn't want her anymore.

But then she came back to fuck with his mind again.

He hated her. He really did. He wanted her with a passion he didn't understand and couldn't explain, but he hated her. She played with him, used him, and left for months at a time before coming back, expecting him to still be there waiting for her. (And the worst was that he was. He would always be.) When he began to think he was finally over her, she came back to mess his life up all over again.

This time when she came he knew at once that something was wrong. It may have been the way she showed up on his doorstep at two in the morning and immediately started snogging him when he opened the door. It may have been the way she touched him, as though she could never get enough of him. It may have been the way she wrapped her legs around him during her release and cuddled up to him afterward. It may have been the way she said his first name when she came.

It may have been the way she rolled over onto her back when they were done kissing, looked up at the ceiling, and said, "Ron cheated on me."

He arched an eyebrow at her, and though she couldn't see him, she must have guessed what he was thinking from the silence that lingered between them.

"No, I'm not being a hypocrite," she said.

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it."

"Can you blame me?"

"I'm not, though," she insisted. "I'm not mad at him for it. That would be awful of me, considering. And anyway, like I told you, things have been weird for a while now. I told you we were considering a break-up... but we got back together, and he apologised. I'm just... stunned, I suppose. I thought we had something."

"You had something," Draco said slowly. "You thought you _had something_?" He couldn't believe it. "You thought everything was _all right_?"

She frowned at him. "You and me, we both know it was never meant to be, but Ron... yes, I thought we had something."

Well, that stung. But she was right, wasn't she?

"We were always friends, and we went through _so much_ together... We were golden. And now we're both sleeping around, and Ron hasn't even _touched_ me in weeks. I don't know how I managed to fuck it up as royally as I did."

She always fucked everything up, didn't she, though?

He wasn't sure he wanted to hear this. Not right now, when all he could think of was the taste of her skin and the way her lips had felt against his, only minutes ago. Not right now, when she was lying naked beside him.

"How do you do it, Draco?" she asked, using his first name again. "How do you keep Astoria happy?"

_When you're not there, we manage remarkably well, actually._

"I don't."

"Look, Draco... This can't happen again. I want to save my marriage. For Rose's sake. And Scorpius'."

He wasn't even surprised anymore. But it did hurt, to have the words flung at him again. He hadn't heard them in over a year, but he hadn't forgotten them. Did she think he had?

For Scorpius' sake. Who was she kidding? She had never even met Scorpius. She could care less about him. Even her own daughter... It wasn't even for Rose's sake. It was for Granger's own sake. She wanted to keep on pretending her life was perfect.

So much for Gryffindor courage.

"This is the last time, Draco."

"I know. It always is, with you," he said bitingly.

* * *

Three months later, Hermione officially announced her second pregnancy.


	8. One Over the Eight

**Review reply to a guest who asked when Draco was going to grow a spine and when I was going to give him back some dignity: **Not gonna happen. You know, while I was writing this fic I totally didn't see it as _him_ having no dignity. I was more focused on _Hermione_'s problems with the relationship. I think _she_'s the one who can't grow a spine here. Draco, I feel, is stronger and can make decisions Hermione can't, as you'll see if you're still reading this (which I doubt). But I appreciate the input, I honestly don't see Draco as a weak, spineless character and I'm glad you warned me that I had written him like that.

**I'm pretty sure you know that the title of this chapter means... drunk.**

* * *

**One Over the Eight**

* * *

A lot of things can happen in a year. It took less than that time for his divorce with Astoria to be settled, amicably, with an agreement that Scorpius would be shuttled between the two of them and that they could both have access to him whenever they wanted to. He was glad Astoria had always been a friend, because it meant they wouldn't fight over their son. He saw her almost as often as he had when they were still married, and he was glad of it. He did care for her, just not in the way he should have.

Hugo was born in March 2008, shortly after his sister's second birthday. He also had red hair, which was a pity. The picture frame on Hermione's desk changed; it now showed the older Rose with her baby brother. It was a weird Muggle photograph, the kind that didn't move.

"She's really talkative," Hermione had remarked once, looking at the photograph fondly. "My Rose, I mean."

"I know what you mean," Draco said. "Scorpius can get very chatty when he's in the mood."

"Do you think they'll be friends when they grow up?"

"My son and Weasley's daughter? Not a chance."

* * *

They were working together again, on and off and on and off. It still wasn't anything official, but now that she worked in Law Enforcement, she was working hard to abolish pure-blood privileges and for that, she had belatedly and grudgingly realised she still needed him. On the days when he didn't have Scorpius or any work with Hermione, Draco had taken over the funding and surveillance of the Rehabilitation Centre for Trauma Victims his family had been made to create after the end of the war. It gave him something to do, and he liked the way the Healers looked at him – appraisingly, their opinions untainted by the shadows of his past.

He liked the way Hermione looked at him, too, the one time she visited the centre with him – in amazement and wonder. It was like she was discovering a new side of him. She held his hand throughout the entire visit as he guided her through the different wings and watched as he talked with the patients and gave advice to the Healers.

"I've brewed the Pain-Numbing Potion you asked for," he said to one, handing the vial over. "A few drops should be enough for Rivers' leg; five at the most. If he has trouble sleeping, there's a new batch of sleeping draughts I've just finished down in the reserve. For him and the others, but not in conjunction with any revitalising treatments they may be undergoing. Be sure to check first, the combination can have nasty side effects. Don't use them past the eighth. If you run out beforehand, tell me and I'll see what I can do."

"You can brew a Pain-Reducing Potion?" Hermione asked when the Healer had left. "But that's mediwizard level. It's nothing you're taught at Hogwarts."

"I always had a knack for Potions," he said. "Maybe not as much as you, but I got by."

"That's really impressive, Draco. And all this work you've put into the centre..." She trailed off.

He shrugged. "They deserve it. After what we did during the war..."  
"No, no," she said, shaking her head. "That's got nothing to do with it. You were only supposed to pay for all this, not... get involved. It's a good thing," she added, when she saw the look on his face. "I think it's a _great_ thing."

Again, the way she looked at him woke a spark deep inside him.

* * *

When they left the centre, he invited her out for a drink. He half-expected her to refuse, as she had the last two times he had offered. She didn't, which he took to mean... well, he tried not to take it to mean anything. When she had said, _"This is the last time,"_ it seemed she had actually meant it for once, because nothing had happened since. But who knew? The time before that, he had thought it was over, too, but it hadn't been.

They went to a small Muggle restaurant on the outskirts of London that didn't seem too seedy. In lieu of a drink, they had a drink and a meal. The waitress set a table for two, and the dimly lit room and white linen tablecloth made Draco uncomfortable.

"I didn't think you were hungry," he said after they had ordered the first round of drinks.

"Don't worry, I'll pay," Hermione said.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," she said. "But one of us has to think straight. You don't have any Muggle money."

"You think _you_'re the straight-thinking one?" he asked incredulously. "Pull the other one, it's got bells on, Hermione."

"You don't have to be so rude about it," she said. "It's not my fault."

He looked at her. "What exactly," he asked, "isn't your fault?"

The waitress came back at that moment, and placed their drinks down in front of them. Hermione sipped from the straw in the cocktail she'd ordered, but Draco didn't take his eyes off her.

"It isn't my fault," Hermione said, "that thinking straight is difficult when you're around."

"So it's my fault, then."

"I didn't say that."

"You might as well have." He leaned forward in his chair. "Look, Granger – Hermione. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I'm not out to get you. I didn't want... what happened... any more than you did. Get this through your head: _it is your fault_. It's as much your fault as it is mine."

The glass slipped from her hand and crashed onto the table; it didn't break. Hermione looked stunned.

"I know that," she said. "Merlin, Draco, don't you think I _know_?"

"Well you have an odd way of showing it," he retorted. "Every time you come see me, you tell me 'I can't do this' or 'This has to stop.' Like _I_'m the one who has to do something about it! But the truth is, Hermione, you're the only one here who doesn't know what you want, and that makes you the only one who can stop this."

Hermione fell silent at that, which he hadn't been expecting. She dropped her gaze to her lap and scanned the menu as though choosing what she would have. He had thought she would say something, anything, in her own defence. But what could she say? He was right, after all. He looked down at his own menu.

Five minutes passed in silence before Hermione said, "You're wrong."

His head jerked up. She was looking straight at him, calmly.

"What?"

"You're wrong," she repeated. "I do know what I want. That's the problem. I shouldn't want what I want."

"Oh. Well." He glanced at the wall, then back at her. "And what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," she said, sounding irritated. "It's wrong."

He felt the corners of his mouth quirk up, though there was nothing funny about the situation. "You're useless," he told her.

"I know."

"So, what are you having?" he asked, gesturing toward the menu in her lap.

"Another drink," she said. "I need it. And the beef with cream and pepper. You?"

"I agree about the drink," he said with a half-smile. "But I'm going to take the monk fish."

They ate mostly in silence, aside from a few pleasantries. He tried to begin a conversation, but her one-word responses soon discouraged him and he stopped. The waitress brought more drinks. Three times. Hermione drank fast, but it didn't loosen her tongue. Awkwardness settled like fog between them, and he ate with his eyes fixed on his plate.

When he was done, he set down his fork and knife and pushed his plate slightly to the side. Doing so, he caught Hermione's gaze on him and started. She had also finished eating and was watching him, a contemplative expression on her face.

"What?" he asked, irritated.

"I was thinking," she said calmly.

"Anything I should know about?"

"I was thinking," she said again, "that we're both idiots."

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I'm an idiot," she said, "but so are you."

"And you say that because...?"

"You say I should know what I want. And I do. You think I should take what I want. And I don't." She leaned across the table and looked him straight in the eyes. Her voice dropped a few octaves. "_But_. Neither. Do. You."

She leaned back in her chair, looking vaguely smug. Something about her expression made Draco's blood boil.

"You think I'm not trying?" he snapped.

Her eyes widened at his tone.

"You think I'm doing _nothing_? You think I'm waiting for things to happen by themselves? _Fuck_, Hermione. I'm just waiting for you to make up your _mind_. I've made mine up. I've asked you out three times in the past six months. I've helped you with your job. I got a fucking _divorce_, Hermione! So don't you _dare_ tell me I'm the one in the wrong here, because I'm _not_. I know what I want. I know how to get there. I'm just waiting for you to make a _decision_."  
"I can't divorce Ron."

Her voice was very small. She was still looking at him, but the self-satisfied expression had been wiped off her face, leaving anxiety in its place.

"I... can't. It's just... I've thought about it," she confessed. "But he loves me. He knows me. We're _best friends_. I just couldn't do that to him. Or to the kids. They need me. I can't leave."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Then what _are_ you asking?"

He paused. Hesitated.

"Come home with me tonight," he said quietly.

Her expression was unreadable. She scraped her chair back, stood up silently and went to pay at the counter. He watched her go, then blew out a sigh and tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. There was a cobweb in a corner. A spider danced across it merrily. She was going to drive him mad one day.

Hermione came back and took his hand in hers. He felt the cold metal of her alliance pressed against her fingers and found he minded. A lot. She pulled him to his feet and out into the street. It was dark outside by now, the lampposts providing an unnatural, yellow light. Hermione seemed to hesitate.

"Where do we go now?" Draco asked, his voice very low.

"You tell me," she whispered back.

She hesitated, then leaned into him. She had had enough drinks that she was swaying slightly on her feet. He was much steadier and Apparated them both back to his house, where she immediately wrapped him into a tight embrace.

"I can't stay away from you anymore, Draco," she said, her hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. "I do know what I want. Earlier today, at the centre... It was like falling in love with you all over again."

She kissed him briefly and her breath smelled of alcohol and Merlin-knew-what – cigarette maybe, but last time he'd checked, Hermione didn't smoke – but he didn't mind. His head was spinning from the words she had just said. _Love...?_ The kiss was light, unbearably so, and she pulled back almost immediately. Her hands gave up on the buttons, preferring to slide under the shirt and up, up, _up_, tracing his torso, feeling the scars there, his nipples, and then her hands were around his neck and she was pressing his lips to hers in a second, more forceful kiss.

"Please, Draco," she said, "just one more time..."

He didn't need any more encouragement.

* * *

**Thanks again to everyone who reviewed or added this fic to their favorites or alerts. How did you like this chapter?**


	9. On Cloud Nine

**You probably also know this one. Means... happy.**

* * *

**On Cloud Nine**

* * *

Their affair began again like that, after that half-drunken night. He could tell it ate at her, but not enough for her to break it off. After all, she had tried that already, hadn't she? And it hadn't worked. Not for long, anyway.

This time it was slightly different. After her admittance the other night, Hermione seemed more comfortable with the idea of _making love_ (as opposed to having sex). She always stayed with him afterwards. Most of the time, they fell asleep together; at the very least they cuddled for a while. There was more kissing involved, and many meals eaten together at his house. And if, at the end of the day, she always returned to Weasley and her two kids, this time he knew where her heart really was.

That wasn't to say she was completely at ease, though. She wasn't. She hadn't told him she loved him again, since that time. They didn't go out to restaurants for romantic candlelit dinners. They didn't give each other gifts. She still seemed unwilling to admit they were a _couple_, but they were definitely a _thing_. The greatest improvement, as far as Draco was concerned, was that she had met Scorpius. She had been smitten with him from the start, taking him in her arms and hugging him like one of her own children.

"He looks so _angelic_," she had said. "I think it's the hair."

"He has my hair," Draco had pointed out.

"You're right. It can't be that." She had stared at Scorpius. "How can he look so _innocent_ when he looks just like you?"

Scorpius had begun to wriggle and complain, and she had put him back down again, but it had been the beginning of a great friendship. Hermione spent long hours playing with Scorpius and his stuffed animals and magical toys. She spent even more time with Draco, though their occupations were of a different nature.

Restaurants. Meals. Drinks. Dates. Evenings. Nights. _Mornings_. Draco honestly felt as though he had just started seeing someone, as though they were a young Hogwarts couple sneaking out to Hogwarts for their first few fumbling, awkward dates (followed by less fumbling, absolutely amazing, mind-blowing sex). That was what had changed. It was no longer just about the sex. Had it ever been? Draco didn't really know anymore. But he was certain that, for her, at some point, it had been. They had had nothing else, at first. They had been colleagues who appreciated each other as friends, and slept together when they couldn't stop themselves, but she had grown unable to keep the sex and her feelings separate. _"Falling in love with you all over again..."_ He kept replaying the scene in his mind, remembering the thrill he had felt when he heard her say the words. _"All over again..."_ When had the first time been?

* * *

He asked her that question, one day over a meal at his house. "When did you realise you loved me?"

The glass of water stopped on its way to Hermione's lips, and she cut her eyes to him. "Blunt, aren't you?"

"Doesn't seem to be any point in pretending I don't know," he said, shrugging. "You _told_ me."

"Once," Hermione said. "One fucking time –"

"Once was enough."

"Yes," she said. "Too much, even." She looked away from him and swirled the water around in her glass as though it were wine. "Do you really want to know?"

"No," he drawled, "I'm just asking to annoy you, but I don't really want to hear the answer."

She smiled a little, amused, still looking down at her glass rather than at him. "Ask a stupid question..."

"Yeah."

"But honestly," she said, "I don't think you _do_ want to know."

"Why not?"

"It's... it's going to sound bad."

He laughed. "_Bad_? When have I ever cared about _that_, Hermione?"

"Really bad. Like, _wrong_. And please stop that," she said, but his laugh had to be infectious; her smile widened and she looked up at him through her lashes. "I'm not telling you, Draco. How about you tell me?"

"Tell you? What makes you think I'm in love with you?"

She raised her head and looked straight at him in disbelief.

"On second thought, don't answer that."

* * *

"Sometimes I wonder," Hermione said later that night as they were both lying in bed, spent and sated, "whether I'm not making some huge mistake."

Draco rolled over onto his side to look at her. A cold, familiar feeling settled in his chest.

"What do you mean?"

"This..." She gestured between them. "It's wonderful. _You_'re wonderful. And you've got a wonderful son. But I wonder if maybe I didn't try hard enough with Ron. Or if..." She swallowed. "Don't get me wrong, Draco. I love what we have. But some days it feels... wrong. I'm... I'm having an _affair_, for Merlin's sake."

He nodded slowly and reached out to touch her arm gently. Once upon a time, her words would have angered him. Now he understood. He knew she would never be as sure of her love as he was. It didn't matter.

"What we have isn't a mistake, Hermione. It was never a mistake, and I don't want you calling it that. The _mistake_ was when we up and married someone else."

She closed her eyes. "And you corrected that mistake by divorcing Astoria."

"Yes."

"Then why do you still wear your wedding ring?"

He stiffened and raised his left hand off the mattress to look at it. Around his ring finger lay a platinum band. Of course Hermione had noticed it. How could she not? He himself found himself staring at her own ring often. She had noticed, and it bothered her. But...

"You're not serious," he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. "You're not _really_ jealous of a woman I've divorced."

She flushed and opened her eyes again. "I know it's ridiculous."

"Yeah, it is. Selfish, stupid, _and_ ridiculous." He paused. "Not that it's any of your business, but that ring isn't the one that sealed my marriage. Or, well, it is, but... it was the one I gave Astoria. I've had it since I was ten and since I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with her, I gave it to Astoria as a wedding ring. It meant a lot more to me than any other ring I could buy for a small fortune, so I thought it was appropriate."

"Who would have thought. Draco Malfoy, a romantic." She was trying to pull off 'teasing' – he could tell – but the jealousy still shone through in her tone.

"Astoria had the grace to give it back when we separated, even though I didn't ask for it. I wore it before we were married and yes, I still wear it now and no, it doesn't mean what you think it means."

"Can I see it?" she asked, then bit her lip. "I mean, if you don't... mind."

"Why would I mind?"

He slipped the ring off his finger, then hesitated. Yes, why _would_ he mind? Maybe because the subject was a touchy one. He had once made the mistake of twirling her alliance around her finger while he kissed her palm, and the way she had reacted had been... unpleasant. Understandably, he knew. It wasn't of the best taste to remind her of her husband while they were... busy.

He let the ring drop onto his palm and held his hand out. Hermione looked at it for a few seconds, then took it into her own hands, rolling it between her fingers. She was silent for a moment as she looked down at the ring – a plain band with no noticeable embellishments or inscriptions.

"You know I'm not ready to get a divorce."

"I know. I'm not asking you to."

They'd been through it before. Many times. It was a conversation Draco didn't particularly enjoy.

"But..." She tore her gaze away from the ring and looked at him. "But you _want_ me to."

He shook his head, slowly. "Not if you don't want to. I understand your reasoning."

"No you don't," she said, but she didn't sound angry. Vaguely amused, maybe. Confused and lost, certainly. "You don't. Of course you don't. How could you? I don't understand it myself."

He wanted to reply, but she stopped him with a kiss and slid the ring slowly back onto his finger. The feel of her smooth hands covering his, the significance of the gesture, the heat of the kiss sent a flash of desire through Draco, and he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer, but that wasn't what Hermione had in mind and she broke away, shaking her head. Her hands remained around his left one, one finger stroking the ring.

"I don't understand _anything_ about this," she said, her gaze searching, as though she expected him to explain something.

"What is there to understand?"

"I'm happy with you."

"I'm happy, too," he said, pulling her flush against him. "And that's enough for me now."

"I'm happy... with you," she repeated. "With _you_."

He smiled a little. "Why do you say that like it's wrong?"

"I have Rose," she said.

"Yeah."

"And Hugo. And Ron."

"Yeah."

"And you have a son."

He was silent.

"You love Scorpius."

He hummed softly, non-committally.

"Why can't they be enough anymore, Draco?"

He raised his left hand, bringing both of hers with it, and pressed a kiss to the knuckles of one.

"Because you love me," he said simply.

It didn't take a genius to figure that one out.

"Love is crazy," he added. "It's stupid, it's unpredictable, and it's complicated. You shouldn't ask yourself these questions, because this is one thing that even you will never be able to make sense of."

"You know... that description sounds like it could be applied to you," Hermione remarked.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said, and leaned over to kiss her, but she shrank back from his touch. He let her pull away, bemused. "Is something wrong?"

"Do you remember when I invited you to my wedding?"

He blinked. "I remember."

"I saw Astoria for the first time then. She was lovely..."

"Is this you being jealous again?"

"This is me answering your question," she said. "You wanted to know when I realised I was in love with you. Well, it was then."

Surprise. Doubt. And a rush of something else, something that coiled itself tightly in his abdomen and made his breath hitch.

"The day of your wedding?" he said after a moment, keeping his voice steady. "Really? You're right, it does sound bad. So because you saw Astoria –"

"No," she said. "Not that bit. It was when she left." She flushed. "It sounds stupid, but I was standing there in my wedding dress and you were in your fancy dress robes and – and – and the only thing I could think of was how much I wanted you. _That_'s when I realised I was a goner." She smiled. "And then we kissed."

"And then you pushed me away."

"Funny, I tend to forget that part."

"Funny," he echoed; then, "Why?"

"Why what? You mean why do I forget – Oh." She understood. "_Oh_. Well." She gave him a saucy grin. "Because love is stupid, unpredictable, and complicated, just like you are."

* * *

**Sweet much? I know this chapter isn't very long, but hey, the next one is 4,000 words long. O.o I'll post it Monday or Tuesday.**

**You know, I was thinking about Dramione the other day. I was looking through the archives with the filters set on Hermione and Draco as the main characters (obviously) and clicked on a fic that had an interesting, well-written summary. The writer lost me with the first line, because the fic began with a mention of Draco's eyes. **

**His _blue_ eyes.  
Aw, please. Anything but that. It's one of my major pet peeves, so much that it's covered in the second chapter of my Dramione parody. I like Draco's eyes as much as the next fangirl. I _have_ been known to wax gag-worthy poetry about his deep, mercury-coloured eyes (or molten silver or cold iron or deep pools of stormy grey or whatever – yes, I'm completely serious). But please, _please_, don't make them blue.**

**Surely I'm not the only one who gets ticked off by this?**


	10. Platform Nine and Three Quarters

**This is Chapter 10. Yes, I know 9 and ¾ is not ten. ^^ Hey, it's close enough. Thank you all for the reviews, favorites, and alerts. **

**This is a huge fast-forward in time. But to make up for it, it's long, _and_ there's sex. Remember how I said it wasn't going to get any more explicit than in chapter three? Yeah? Well, it won't. But I think this chapter comes very damn close. **

**Oh, all right, I lied. It got more explicit (and there's a certain number of F-bombs). Blame Hermione, okay? It's still _okay_, in my opinion; the vocabulary is very tame even if the situation itself isn't. Besides, I need practice. I try to make it more about the emotions than the physical parts, and this story is perfect for that.  
**

* * *

**Platform Nine and 3/4**

* * *

There was nothing more fucked-up than Hermione's marriage. She said she loved Weasley, but she couldn't stay away from Draco. She said she couldn't leave him, but what she was doing was worse. She tried to justify herself by saying that he wasn't always faithful, either, but as far as either of them knew, Weasley had only cheated once and fessed up directly afterward. It wasn't like Hermione to be so blinded and so cruel. Couldn't she see what she was doing? To her husband, to her friends, to her children... to him.

Her marriage was falling apart. It had been for years now. The shattered pieces held together only by hope. Weasley's hope. Her kids' hope. Hermione's own hope that somehow, everything would turn out all right. Weasley wasn't blind. He knew something was going on, but hope, or maybe cowardice, or maybe _love_ kept him by her side. The kids suspected. They were old enough by now to have figured it out. Rose, at least, had to guess most or all of it. To hear Hermione say it, the girl took after her mother, bright and perceptive. She knew and it made her miserable. It rubbed off on Hugo, who was a moody, brooding nine-year-old. Hell, even Potter knew, according to Hermione (_"It's the way he looks at me, Draco, I can tell he knows"_).

At first he hadn't minded. Hadn't he told Hermione that a dozen times? She could take her time. He understood. But he didn't. He _didn't_ understand. He had just been patient. And after nine years since the most recent renewal of their affair and almost twenty years since their first kiss, that patience was wearing thin. Nine. Fucking. _Years_. It was ridiculous. Why was he still hung up on her like this?

At one point he had cracked. That had been during their most recent real break-up, years ago now. He had started seeing other women, because he had been tired of _waiting_. For a time, it had been satisfying. He hadn't even felt guilty, because it wasn't cheating (and, really, even if it had been, he still wouldn't have felt guilty). It wasn't like Hermione didn't sleep with Weasley. Draco's trysts had been liberating, had made him feel young again and forget that he had passed thirty. But after he and Hermione had re-ignited their affair, he had stopped and never gone back, because _she_ was satisfying, now. They saw each other practically every day. Recently, though, in his frustration, Draco had taken up the habit again – and this time around, guilt gnawed at him whenever he looked at Hermione. But it wasn't his fault. It was hers.

It was obvious she didn't intend to do anything. She had taken his words as permission to keep him as her dirty little secret. Which was what it had been, if he was entirely honest with himself. But... _nine years_. He wasn't getting any younger, and Hermione sure as hell wasn't getting any more mature. As the years passed, she seemed to get used to her situation and didn't even mind talking about it with Draco anymore.

She had, or so she claimed, given up on trying to make her marriage work. They broke up and made up all the time. Hermione said she could remember a time when she had found it sexy, when she had loved the making up and even the heated arguments. Now it all seemed like just a routine, and nothing made sense anymore. When Ron kissed her after an argument, she felt nothing. After years of being married to each other, they had settled into a boring, unsurprising routine, and she hated it. Draco was the one she loved, she swore. _Then why don't you leave him?_ Draco had almost asked her a hundred times. _Why are you telling me this when he's the one you should be saying it to?_

A hundred times Draco tried to be the one who left her. A hundred times he almost said the words to end this insanity. He knew exactly how to break things off. He knew exactly which words would make her hate him. A hundred times he had recited them to himself, trying to gather up the courage to say them. But courage was a Gryffindor thing, not his. If Hermione couldn't muster up the necessary courage to face her actions, then how was he supposed to?

* * *

Nine fucking years later, he stood on Platform 9 and ¾ at King's Cross Station, his hand on Scorpius' shoulder, Astoria by his side. They had remained on friendly terms, for Scorpius' sake and also because Astoria really was a wonderful person. Scorpius had grown into the spitting image of his father, to Draco's delight. (Astoria pretended she thought their son was very ungrateful, considering _she_ was the one who had carried him for nine difficult months, but Draco knew she found him beautiful.) Scorpius was slim and had Draco's face, hair, and eyes, but he was less spiteful than his father at the same age, which Draco put down to Astoria's calm and gentleness. He was proud, but you could hardly call it arrogance. He was clever. He was respectful. He was, in a word, perfect, and this was going to be his first year at Hogwarts. They still had maybe ten minutes before the train left. Draco could remember leaving his family as soon as he set foot on the platform that first time, eager to get on the train that would take him away. He was touched when Scorpius stayed with them instead for those last few minutes, happily chatting away.

He was worried when he saw the knowing glances coming their way. As soon as he tried to meet someone's gaze, they turned their head away quickly, knowing they'd been caught. One woman he thought he vaguely recognised drew her little girl closer and leaned down to whisper something in her ear while looking straight at him. It made him uneasy. Scorpius didn't know anything about his father's role in the war, and while he knew Granger's kids didn't either, he hoped his son wouldn't find himself in a carriage of students who knew exactly who the Malfoy family was. He absent-mindedly rubbed his left forearm through his robes, then caught Astoria's glance and let his hand drop as though he'd been burnt. He saw his own worry reflected in his ex-wife's eyes and tried to force a reassuring smile. Meanwhile Scorpius said something, then laughed. Draco wanted to be as relaxed as him, but it was difficult.

Suddenly, he had the distinct impression that someone was staring at him. _Again?_ he thought, and looked around. He quickly located Potter, who was looking right at him, and felt himself stiffen. Potter's gaze travelled to Scorpius, then back up at Draco again. Draco gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement, to which Potter responded – much to Draco's surprise – in kind before looking away and saying something to his wife. Draco's heart leapt in his throat when he saw Granger lean into Weasley's embrace and laugh.

"Who's that?" Scorpius, who had watched the exchange, wanted to know. Then he did a double take at the man at the other end of the platform. "Merlin's sock, is it _Harry Potter_?"

Draco winced. If it had been up to him, Scorpius would never even have known that name, but Astoria had been adamant: her son would not grow up ignorant of the war. Ignorance, she had told a sullen Draco, was the cause of prejudice and violence and that was _not_ the path she wanted her son to take.

Besides, it would have been difficult to keep Scorpius from reading Chocolate Frog Cards forever.

"Yes," Draco said cautiously. "That's him."

"That is _so_ cool," Scorpius said, craning his neck for another glimpse of the Boy-Who-Lived. "Does he really still have his scar?"

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. His son was a fan of Harry Potter. How was he ever going to live this down? This was definitely Astoria's fault.

"His son Albus will be in your year at school," Astoria told Scorpius. "If you have any questions, you can ask him."

And his wife was suggesting that Scorpius be friends with a Potter look-a-like. This couldn't get any worse.

"And Rose Weasley, too," Astoria added. "Harry Potter's niece. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley's son."

"Hermione Granger?" Scorpius repeated, and looked again.

He didn't remember Hermione. Didn't remember the woman who had taken a shine to him when he was two years old. She saw him practically every time she came around... and then she stopped, saying that she didn't want to replace his mother. The truth, Draco knew, was that she didn't want anyone to know about their affair.

That was it. The day had just got worse. And Draco was sure Astoria had done it on purpose, too. Was she still jealous of Hermione? He shot her a look and she smiled back innocently.

"I'm sure they're very unpleasant kids," Draco said. "_Please_ don't try to make friends, Scorpius."

"Why not?"

Draco remembered the day on the train when he had asked Harry for his friendship, and the way he'd been rejected. Would Rose and Albus have grown up around horror stories about the Malfoys? He certainly wouldn't put it past Weasley to have told them all about him.

"Just because," he said, then sighed. "Oh, do what you want, Scorpius. The train will be leaving in a couple of minutes. Send an owl tonight when you get there, all right?"

"After the Sorting," Scorpius said, nodding. "Yes, Dad. Bye. Bye, Mum."

He gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek to say good-bye, then whirled around and headed off for the train, dragging his trunk along behind him. Draco watched him disappear into the train and sighed again. Astoria's hand slid into his, warm and comforting.

"He'll be fine," she said.

"I know." He chuckled. "I feel so old, watching him leave."

Again that creepy sensation of being watched. He scanned the platform, which was already steadily emptying as the kids boarded the train and the parents began to leave. He met Hermione's gaze, hot, steady, and insistant. A smoldering gaze that promised an encounter that night. There was a spark of something else there too. Something he hardly ever saw in her... Jealousy. He realised he was still holding Astoria's hand, but instead of stepping away guiltily, he pointedly looked away from Hermione.

Astoria had caught the whole thing, and her expression was half-disgusted, half-amused. "You're an idiot," she told her ex-husband.

"I know."

"You want to make her notice you? Then leave her. And she'll come to you."

He found his gaze straying back to Hermione and forced himself to look at Astoria instead. "I wish it were that easy."

Astoria's expression softened. "You really _are_ an idiot. And hopeless."

"Thank you."

"I only hope our son doesn't take after you in that respect," she said. "I suppose you're right. If Rose is anything like her mother, then I don't want our son to have anything to do with her. I don't want him to turn out like you."

"Thank you," he said again.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do."

* * *

That night wasn't sweet. As he had expected, he had succeeded in making her jealous and she came to him, not outright furious (because she knew she didn't have the right) but simmering. She came to his room but didn't bother to make her way to the bed; instead she slammed him against the wall and pressed her lips to his. The first kiss wasn't as brutal as some they had exchanged, because she was trying not to let her feelings show. She seemed determined to drive him crazy, the kiss good but tantalisingly slow and close-mouthed, almost chaste, almost – but he didn't want his thoughts to go into that territory. The thing to do with Hermione, he had realised over the years, was to keep the sex and the problems separate.

He didn't want to do that anymore.

In the end she was the one who lost control when he gripped her hips and pulled her body flush against his. The kiss deepened. Her fingers flew over his belt, then the zipper of his trousers, which they fell to the ground with a soft _clink_ as the buckle hit the floor. Then he could _feel_ her hands touching him, ever so _lightly_, through the thin fabric of his pants.

"Slow down, Hermione," he murmured.

She didn't take him seriously and hooked her thumbs inside the hem of his pants to pull them down. Draco caught her wrists and pushed her away, looking into her eyes.

"Slow _down_," he repeated, firmly this time.

"Why?" she said, looking confused. "Aren't you –"

He kissed her, gently, softly, then pulled back. "We need to talk."

"Right _now_?"

He kissed her neck. "Yes, right now."

"This had better be good."

"You're _jealous_," he said into her neck.

"That's ridiculous."

"Absolutely," he agreed. "But you are."

She didn't deny it.

"Sometimes," he said, "hot, angry sex isn't the solution."

She looked up at him incredulously.

"Okay," he admitted, "the hot part, maybe, yes. But the angry –"

"I'm not angry," she said, and kissed him again.

He let her, this time, because he had no choice in the matter. He let her, and let go of her wrists, his arms wrapping themselves around her waist and pulling her closer instead, then turning them around so she was the one pressed against the wall. What was it about her, exactly, that made her so irresistible? She wasn't the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The harmony of Astoria's Grecian profile, slender shape, and flowing dark hair was really a closer guess. There was nothing particularly mind-blowing about Hermione's physique – the overall impression was attractive, but not excessively so, and even less so now that she, like him, was getting closer to that "mature" age. She was clever, yes, but he had never been one to find that arousing. Interesting, yes. Sexy, no. She was gentle and forgiving, but so was Astoria, and – and why was he comparing her to his ex-wife? Maybe Hermione was right to be jealous. Astoria _should_ have come out the winner in every way, but instead, she paled in comparison to the glowing, passionate woman in front of him.

And it made him furious.

"Fuck you," he said into her mouth.

He was sure she knew what he was saying, even though she couldn't possibly make out the words. He felt her smile against his lips and wrap her hands around his neck, digging her nails almost painfully into his skin, and something snapped inside of him. She felt it when he tightened his hold around her, because she gasped slightly and pulled away from the kiss. The smile he gave her was as smug as hers just seconds before, and before she could say anything, he spun her around and pressed her against the wall, facing away from him.

"Fuck you," he said again, and this time she did hear him and her entire body tensed up.

"Draco –"

"You think," he said, "that you can just – just _do_ things like that, and I won't mind. You think I'll always be here, waiting for you, and that makes me – what? Worthless, Hermione? Do you really think there's nothing you can do that will make me leave? Is that why you keep playing games? Is that why you think it's okay to fuck me just to keep me close? Because, in case you were wondering, the _sex_ isn't what's lacking in our little arrangement."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, a hint of fear lacing her tone.

She tried to wriggle out from his hold, to twist her body around so she could face him, but his grip was firm. She settled for turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.

"Draco, what –"

"You _should_ be jealous of Astoria, you know," he said.

Something sparked in her eyes. Hurt. And a hint of that smugness again, that self-righteousness, as though the fact that _he_ could be seeing someone else somehow justified what _she_ was doing.

"You mean –"

"No," he said. "I don't mean that at all. You're too blind to see, woman, that there's... that there's..." He struggled to spit the words out, they were so _pathetic_. "I _tried_," he snapped. "Of course I bloody tried, because you and me, we never had a fucking _future_, you know? So I _tried_ to look elsewhere. But in bed, at least – or on the floor, or whatever – there's no one else who can hold a candle to what you do to me. Not anyone I've found, at least."

"Then what –"

"You should be jealous," he said, "because Astoria – and the other women – they gave me something else. Something _human_." He was tracing the sensitive spot above her hipbone with his thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure. "It doesn't have to be just about the sex."

"It isn't."

"Yeah, it is," he said. "And that's... it makes sense, I suppose. It must be easier for you if you don't get emotionally involved."

He slid his hand underneath her shirt to continue his touches on bare skin; she closed her eyes and turned her head away to lean her forehead against the wall, tilting her hips back into his touch.

"If I'm jealous," she said, her voice very low, "then doesn't that mean I'm emotionally involved? If I keep coming back to you – if this has been going on for years – if I still hate seeing you with your ex-wife – then doesn't that mean I'm emotionally involved?"

"You tell me, Hermione. Sometimes I feel I still don't know anything about you."

His hands worked his way around, tracing her navel, then dipping inside the hem of her knickers. His fingers looked for something, and found it; her breath hitched.

"You know everything about me," Hermione said, tilting her head back in pleasure. "_Draco_..."

He _did_ know everything about her, inside and out. He knew how to make her _feel_. He knew how to drive her crazy. And he intended to put that knowledge to good use.

"Lean forward," he said, his voice low and breathy in her ear. "Spread your legs, tilt your hips back, and put your hands on the wall to brace yourself. Yes, like that."

She obeyed without discussion or even a small hesitation, which surprised him. It wasn't often they did it like this – Draco liked to see a woman's eyes when he was inside her, and he knew she wasn't entirely comfortable with the apparent coldness of the position, either.

He stopped touching her and pulled her knickers down in one swift movement; Hermione lifted her legs one after the other to kick them away. Then his hand was back under her skirt, more insistent this time, and Hermione rocked her hips against his fingers, letting out a single, throaty moan. He kissed her right where the dip of her shoulder met her neck, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of sweat and Hermione. Then he did it again, and again.

"Draco," she said, "I don't mean to interrupt, but –"

"Shut up," he said forcefully, and she did.

He took his time with her, slowly building her up to the release she wanted. He knew her too well, as she had said, well enough to know when she was on the edge. That was when he stopped for a second or two, refusing her the right to actually fall over the edge, before starting again. Teasing. Tantalising. Torturous. And through it all Hermione didn't say one more word, though he could feel her shaking when he touched her, and tensing up with irritation when he stopped. She didn't speak up once to say something, or beg, or ask him _why_. He elicited the occasional soft cry with his touches, maybe even something that could have been his name, but that was it.

At last he stopped, for real this time.

"Don't move," he told her as he let go and stepped back.

She didn't. He took a moment to look at her, her hair falling over her shoulders, her entire body trembling from desire, the glistening wetness running down her left thigh. He watched her leisurely as he slid his pants off before moving back to her and placing his hands on her hips firmly. Then, with a slow, long roll of his hips and a soft hiss of pleasure, he was inside her.

It was fast, which wasn't something he would be proud of under normal circumstances. He didn't even touch her, just kept his hands on her hips like that, as though he were taking, not giving – and he was. But she was ready for that, more than ready. She rocked her hips back to meet each of his thrusts and her body glistened with sweat before his. She didn't look back at him once. Sex had never been so impersonal and so intimate at the same time. He poured all his fury, hurt, and annoyance into his thrusts, and then it was over. He slumped against her afterward, wrapping his arms around her, planting another kiss on her neck.

"Feeling emotionally involved yet?" he asked.

She laughed softly. "Very much."

She wriggled beneath him, not insistently, but almost as a question. He let go of her and backed away to let her turn around and face him. She looked so deliciously fucked – her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the shirt he hadn't even bothered to take off, her hair a mess, her eyes still glazed over with pleasure – that he couldn't help but grin.

"Sorry about that," he said, making a twirling motion in the air with his index finger so she knew what he was referring to.

"Not a problem," she said. Then, "You haven't even taken off your shirt."

He shrugged. "Not necessary."

"I think it is," she said, reaching out to unbutton it. She looked down at his shirt as she did so, her fingers flying over the buttons. "I _was_ angry," she admitted quietly. "I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."

"Yeah, it was." He shrugged out of the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. "How would you react if I –"

Her hands reached up to cover his mouth with two fingers, lightly, though she still didn't look up at him. "Shh," she said. "Don't say it."

_Don't say what?_ he wanted to ask. _How do you know what I was going to say?_

_How would you react if I acted jealous every time you came back to me after spending a night with Weasley?_

"It was stupid," she said again, apparently very absorbed by what she was doing – dragging her fingers across his chest, then over his shoulders and down his arms, and then right back up again. "I know that. Please don't make this difficult."

"Right, because I'm the one who always makes things difficult."

"Please," she said. "I love you."

He was silent for a long time. Was talking 'making things difficult'? He thought that was what she meant, so he remained quiet. She seemed to relax, running her hands up and down his body with light, teasing touches, occasionally leaning forward to kiss his chest. He didn't do or say anything, but stayed there, silent and unmoving, as she tried to – to what, exactly? Make it up to him?

"Look at me," he breathed.

She did, and he realised with a jolt that her pupils were still dilated with arousal. She gave the most indecent of smiles – almost a smirk – as she slid down his body slowly, her eyes never leaving his for even a second. She trailed kisses down his torso, across his upper thigh, then on his inner thigh.

And then there was fire.

* * *

When it was over, he said, slightly out of breath, "I feel – like I'm – nineteen again."

"I don't remember anything like that happening when we were nineteen. It was all very tame back then, considering."

* * *

Scorpius was Sorted into Slytherin. Draco should have been proud. Unfortunately, Albus Potter also ended up in Slytherin, and he and Scorpius struck up an immediate friendship. Rose, who was a Gryffindor, apparently came attached with the Potter boy, because soon Scorpius was writing home about his _two_ new friends.

Draco really was never going to live it down.

* * *

**I couldn't resist adding that last bit.**

**Please drop a review telling me what you think. Only three more chapters to go... It'll be over in less than two weeks. Next chapter is called... Eleventh-Hour Decision. :)**


	11. Eleventh Hour Decision

**This is Chapter 10. Yes, I know 9 and ¾ is not ten. ^^ Hey, it's close enough. Thank you all for the reviews, favorites, and alerts. **

**This is a huge fast-forward in time. But to make up for it, it's long, _and_ there's sex. Remember how I said it wasn't going to get any more explicit than in chapter three? Yeah? Well, it won't. But I think this chapter comes very damn close. **

**Oh, all right, I lied. It got more explicit (and there's a certain number of F-bombs). Blame Hermione, okay? It's still _okay_, in my opinion; the vocabulary is very tame even if the situation itself isn't. Besides, I need practice. I try to make it more about the emotions than the physical parts, and this story is perfect for that.  
**

* * *

**Platform Nine and 3/4**

* * *

There was nothing more fucked-up than Hermione's marriage. She said she loved Weasley, but she couldn't stay away from Draco. She said she couldn't leave him, but what she was doing was worse. She tried to justify herself by saying that he wasn't always faithful, either, but as far as either of them knew, Weasley had only cheated once and fessed up directly afterward. It wasn't like Hermione to be so blinded and so cruel. Couldn't she see what she was doing? To her husband, to her friends, to her children... to him.

Her marriage was falling apart. It had been for years now. The shattered pieces held together only by hope. Weasley's hope. Her kids' hope. Hermione's own hope that somehow, everything would turn out all right. Weasley wasn't blind. He knew something was going on, but hope, or maybe cowardice, or maybe _love_ kept him by her side. The kids suspected. They were old enough by now to have figured it out. Rose, at least, had to guess most or all of it. To hear Hermione say it, the girl took after her mother, bright and perceptive. She knew and it made her miserable. It rubbed off on Hugo, who was a moody, brooding nine-year-old. Hell, even Potter knew, according to Hermione (_"It's the way he looks at me, Draco, I can tell he knows"_).

At first he hadn't minded. Hadn't he told Hermione that a dozen times? She could take her time. He understood. But he didn't. He _didn't_ understand. He had just been patient. And after nine years since the most recent renewal of their affair and almost twenty years since their first kiss, that patience was wearing thin. Nine. Fucking. _Years_. It was ridiculous. Why was he still hung up on her like this?

At one point he had cracked. That had been during their most recent real break-up, years ago now. He had started seeing other women, because he had been tired of _waiting_. For a time, it had been satisfying. He hadn't even felt guilty, because it wasn't cheating (and, really, even if it had been, he still wouldn't have felt guilty). It wasn't like Hermione didn't sleep with Weasley. Draco's trysts had been liberating, had made him feel young again and forget that he had passed thirty. But after he and Hermione had re-ignited their affair, he had stopped and never gone back, because _she_ was satisfying, now. They saw each other practically every day. Recently, though, in his frustration, Draco had taken up the habit again – and this time around, guilt gnawed at him whenever he looked at Hermione. But it wasn't his fault. It was hers.

It was obvious she didn't intend to do anything. She had taken his words as permission to keep him as her dirty little secret. Which was what it had been, if he was entirely honest with himself. But... _nine years_. He wasn't getting any younger, and Hermione sure as hell wasn't getting any more mature. As the years passed, she seemed to get used to her situation and didn't even mind talking about it with Draco anymore.

She had, or so she claimed, given up on trying to make her marriage work. They broke up and made up all the time. Hermione said she could remember a time when she had found it sexy, when she had loved the making up and even the heated arguments. Now it all seemed like just a routine, and nothing made sense anymore. When Ron kissed her after an argument, she felt nothing. After years of being married to each other, they had settled into a boring, unsurprising routine, and she hated it. Draco was the one she loved, she swore. _Then why don't you leave him?_ Draco had almost asked her a hundred times. _Why are you telling me this when he's the one you should be saying it to?_

A hundred times Draco tried to be the one who left her. A hundred times he almost said the words to end this insanity. He knew exactly how to break things off. He knew exactly which words would make her hate him. A hundred times he had recited them to himself, trying to gather up the courage to say them. But courage was a Gryffindor thing, not his. If Hermione couldn't muster up the necessary courage to face her actions, then how was he supposed to?

* * *

Nine fucking years later, he stood on Platform 9 and ¾ at King's Cross Station, his hand on Scorpius' shoulder, Astoria by his side. They had remained on friendly terms, for Scorpius' sake and also because Astoria really was a wonderful person. Scorpius had grown into the spitting image of his father, to Draco's delight. (Astoria pretended she thought their son was very ungrateful, considering _she_ was the one who had carried him for nine difficult months, but Draco knew she found him beautiful.) Scorpius was slim and had Draco's face, hair, and eyes, but he was less spiteful than his father at the same age, which Draco put down to Astoria's calm and gentleness. He was proud, but you could hardly call it arrogance. He was clever. He was respectful. He was, in a word, perfect, and this was going to be his first year at Hogwarts. They still had maybe ten minutes before the train left. Draco could remember leaving his family as soon as he set foot on the platform that first time, eager to get on the train that would take him away. He was touched when Scorpius stayed with them instead for those last few minutes, happily chatting away.

He was worried when he saw the knowing glances coming their way. As soon as he tried to meet someone's gaze, they turned their head away quickly, knowing they'd been caught. One woman he thought he vaguely recognised drew her little girl closer and leaned down to whisper something in her ear while looking straight at him. It made him uneasy. Scorpius didn't know anything about his father's role in the war, and while he knew Granger's kids didn't either, he hoped his son wouldn't find himself in a carriage of students who knew exactly who the Malfoy family was. He absent-mindedly rubbed his left forearm through his robes, then caught Astoria's glance and let his hand drop as though he'd been burnt. He saw his own worry reflected in his ex-wife's eyes and tried to force a reassuring smile. Meanwhile Scorpius said something, then laughed. Draco wanted to be as relaxed as him, but it was difficult.

Suddenly, he had the distinct impression that someone was staring at him. _Again?_ he thought, and looked around. He quickly located Potter, who was looking right at him, and felt himself stiffen. Potter's gaze travelled to Scorpius, then back up at Draco again. Draco gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement, to which Potter responded – much to Draco's surprise – in kind before looking away and saying something to his wife. Draco's heart leapt in his throat when he saw Granger lean into Weasley's embrace and laugh.

"Who's that?" Scorpius, who had watched the exchange, wanted to know. Then he did a double take at the man at the other end of the platform. "Merlin's sock, is it _Harry Potter_?"

Draco winced. If it had been up to him, Scorpius would never even have known that name, but Astoria had been adamant: her son would not grow up ignorant of the war. Ignorance, she had told a sullen Draco, was the cause of prejudice and violence and that was _not_ the path she wanted her son to take.

Besides, it would have been difficult to keep Scorpius from reading Chocolate Frog Cards forever.

"Yes," Draco said cautiously. "That's him."

"That is _so_ cool," Scorpius said, craning his neck for another glimpse of the Boy-Who-Lived. "Does he really still have his scar?"

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. His son was a fan of Harry Potter. How was he ever going to live this down? This was definitely Astoria's fault.

"His son Albus will be in your year at school," Astoria told Scorpius. "If you have any questions, you can ask him."

And his wife was suggesting that Scorpius be friends with a Potter look-a-like. This couldn't get any worse.

"And Rose Weasley, too," Astoria added. "Harry Potter's niece. Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley's son."

"Hermione Granger?" Scorpius repeated, and looked again.

He didn't remember Hermione. Didn't remember the woman who had taken a shine to him when he was two years old. She saw him practically every time she came around... and then she stopped, saying that she didn't want to replace his mother. The truth, Draco knew, was that she didn't want anyone to know about their affair.

That was it. The day had just got worse. And Draco was sure Astoria had done it on purpose, too. Was she still jealous of Hermione? He shot her a look and she smiled back innocently.

"I'm sure they're very unpleasant kids," Draco said. "_Please_ don't try to make friends, Scorpius."

"Why not?"

Draco remembered the day on the train when he had asked Harry for his friendship, and the way he'd been rejected. Would Rose and Albus have grown up around horror stories about the Malfoys? He certainly wouldn't put it past Weasley to have told them all about him.

"Just because," he said, then sighed. "Oh, do what you want, Scorpius. The train will be leaving in a couple of minutes. Send an owl tonight when you get there, all right?"

"After the Sorting," Scorpius said, nodding. "Yes, Dad. Bye. Bye, Mum."

He gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek to say good-bye, then whirled around and headed off for the train, dragging his trunk along behind him. Draco watched him disappear into the train and sighed again. Astoria's hand slid into his, warm and comforting.

"He'll be fine," she said.

"I know." He chuckled. "I feel so old, watching him leave."

Again that creepy sensation of being watched. He scanned the platform, which was already steadily emptying as the kids boarded the train and the parents began to leave. He met Hermione's gaze, hot, steady, and insistant. A smoldering gaze that promised an encounter that night. There was a spark of something else there too. Something he hardly ever saw in her... Jealousy. He realised he was still holding Astoria's hand, but instead of stepping away guiltily, he pointedly looked away from Hermione.

Astoria had caught the whole thing, and her expression was half-disgusted, half-amused. "You're an idiot," she told her ex-husband.

"I know."

"You want to make her notice you? Then leave her. And she'll come to you."

He found his gaze straying back to Hermione and forced himself to look at Astoria instead. "I wish it were that easy."

Astoria's expression softened. "You really _are_ an idiot. And hopeless."

"Thank you."

"I only hope our son doesn't take after you in that respect," she said. "I suppose you're right. If Rose is anything like her mother, then I don't want our son to have anything to do with her. I don't want him to turn out like you."

"Thank you," he said again.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do."

* * *

That night wasn't sweet. As he had expected, he had succeeded in making her jealous and she came to him, not outright furious (because she knew she didn't have the right) but simmering. She came to his room but didn't bother to make her way to the bed; instead she slammed him against the wall and pressed her lips to his. The first kiss wasn't as brutal as some they had exchanged, because she was trying not to let her feelings show. She seemed determined to drive him crazy, the kiss good but tantalisingly slow and close-mouthed, almost chaste, almost – but he didn't want his thoughts to go into that territory. The thing to do with Hermione, he had realised over the years, was to keep the sex and the problems separate.

He didn't want to do that anymore.

In the end she was the one who lost control when he gripped her hips and pulled her body flush against his. The kiss deepened. Her fingers flew over his belt, then the zipper of his trousers, which they fell to the ground with a soft _clink_ as the buckle hit the floor. Then he could _feel_ her hands touching him, ever so _lightly_, through the thin fabric of his pants.

"Slow down, Hermione," he murmured.

She didn't take him seriously and hooked her thumbs inside the hem of his pants to pull them down. Draco caught her wrists and pushed her away, looking into her eyes.

"Slow _down_," he repeated, firmly this time.

"Why?" she said, looking confused. "Aren't you –"

He kissed her, gently, softly, then pulled back. "We need to talk."

"Right _now_?"

He kissed her neck. "Yes, right now."

"This had better be good."

"You're _jealous_," he said into her neck.

"That's ridiculous."

"Absolutely," he agreed. "But you are."

She didn't deny it.

"Sometimes," he said, "hot, angry sex isn't the solution."

She looked up at him incredulously.

"Okay," he admitted, "the hot part, maybe, yes. But the angry –"

"I'm not angry," she said, and kissed him again.

He let her, this time, because he had no choice in the matter. He let her, and let go of her wrists, his arms wrapping themselves around her waist and pulling her closer instead, then turning them around so she was the one pressed against the wall. What was it about her, exactly, that made her so irresistible? She wasn't the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. The harmony of Astoria's Grecian profile, slender shape, and flowing dark hair was really a closer guess. There was nothing particularly mind-blowing about Hermione's physique – the overall impression was attractive, but not excessively so, and even less so now that she, like him, was getting closer to that "mature" age. She was clever, yes, but he had never been one to find that arousing. Interesting, yes. Sexy, no. She was gentle and forgiving, but so was Astoria, and – and why was he comparing her to his ex-wife? Maybe Hermione was right to be jealous. Astoria _should_ have come out the winner in every way, but instead, she paled in comparison to the glowing, passionate woman in front of him.

And it made him furious.

"Fuck you," he said into her mouth.

He was sure she knew what he was saying, even though she couldn't possibly make out the words. He felt her smile against his lips and wrap her hands around his neck, digging her nails almost painfully into his skin, and something snapped inside of him. She felt it when he tightened his hold around her, because she gasped slightly and pulled away from the kiss. The smile he gave her was as smug as hers just seconds before, and before she could say anything, he spun her around and pressed her against the wall, facing away from him.

"Fuck you," he said again, and this time she did hear him and her entire body tensed up.

"Draco –"

"You think," he said, "that you can just – just _do_ things like that, and I won't mind. You think I'll always be here, waiting for you, and that makes me – what? Worthless, Hermione? Do you really think there's nothing you can do that will make me leave? Is that why you keep playing games? Is that why you think it's okay to fuck me just to keep me close? Because, in case you were wondering, the _sex_ isn't what's lacking in our little arrangement."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, a hint of fear lacing her tone.

She tried to wriggle out from his hold, to twist her body around so she could face him, but his grip was firm. She settled for turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.

"Draco, what –"

"You _should_ be jealous of Astoria, you know," he said.

Something sparked in her eyes. Hurt. And a hint of that smugness again, that self-righteousness, as though the fact that _he_ could be seeing someone else somehow justified what _she_ was doing.

"You mean –"

"No," he said. "I don't mean that at all. You're too blind to see, woman, that there's... that there's..." He struggled to spit the words out, they were so _pathetic_. "I _tried_," he snapped. "Of course I bloody tried, because you and me, we never had a fucking _future_, you know? So I _tried_ to look elsewhere. But in bed, at least – or on the floor, or whatever – there's no one else who can hold a candle to what you do to me. Not anyone I've found, at least."

"Then what –"

"You should be jealous," he said, "because Astoria – and the other women – they gave me something else. Something _human_." He was tracing the sensitive spot above her hipbone with his thumb, applying just the right amount of pressure. "It doesn't have to be just about the sex."

"It isn't."

"Yeah, it is," he said. "And that's... it makes sense, I suppose. It must be easier for you if you don't get emotionally involved."

He slid his hand underneath her shirt to continue his touches on bare skin; she closed her eyes and turned her head away to lean her forehead against the wall, tilting her hips back into his touch.

"If I'm jealous," she said, her voice very low, "then doesn't that mean I'm emotionally involved? If I keep coming back to you – if this has been going on for years – if I still hate seeing you with your ex-wife – then doesn't that mean I'm emotionally involved?"

"You tell me, Hermione. Sometimes I feel I still don't know anything about you."

His hands worked his way around, tracing her navel, then dipping inside the hem of her knickers. His fingers looked for something, and found it; her breath hitched.

"You know everything about me," Hermione said, tilting her head back in pleasure. "_Draco_..."

He _did_ know everything about her, inside and out. He knew how to make her _feel_. He knew how to drive her crazy. And he intended to put that knowledge to good use.

"Lean forward," he said, his voice low and breathy in her ear. "Spread your legs, tilt your hips back, and put your hands on the wall to brace yourself. Yes, like that."

She obeyed without discussion or even a small hesitation, which surprised him. It wasn't often they did it like this – Draco liked to see a woman's eyes when he was inside her, and he knew she wasn't entirely comfortable with the apparent coldness of the position, either.

He stopped touching her and pulled her knickers down in one swift movement; Hermione lifted her legs one after the other to kick them away. Then his hand was back under her skirt, more insistent this time, and Hermione rocked her hips against his fingers, letting out a single, throaty moan. He kissed her right where the dip of her shoulder met her neck, a soft, lingering kiss that tasted of sweat and Hermione. Then he did it again, and again.

"Draco," she said, "I don't mean to interrupt, but –"

"Shut up," he said forcefully, and she did.

He took his time with her, slowly building her up to the release she wanted. He knew her too well, as she had said, well enough to know when she was on the edge. That was when he stopped for a second or two, refusing her the right to actually fall over the edge, before starting again. Teasing. Tantalising. Torturous. And through it all Hermione didn't say one more word, though he could feel her shaking when he touched her, and tensing up with irritation when he stopped. She didn't speak up once to say something, or beg, or ask him _why_. He elicited the occasional soft cry with his touches, maybe even something that could have been his name, but that was it.

At last he stopped, for real this time.

"Don't move," he told her as he let go and stepped back.

She didn't. He took a moment to look at her, her hair falling over her shoulders, her entire body trembling from desire, the glistening wetness running down her left thigh. He watched her leisurely as he slid his pants off before moving back to her and placing his hands on her hips firmly. Then, with a slow, long roll of his hips and a soft hiss of pleasure, he was inside her.

It was fast, which wasn't something he would be proud of under normal circumstances. He didn't even touch her, just kept his hands on her hips like that, as though he were taking, not giving – and he was. But she was ready for that, more than ready. She rocked her hips back to meet each of his thrusts and her body glistened with sweat before his. She didn't look back at him once. Sex had never been so impersonal and so intimate at the same time. He poured all his fury, hurt, and annoyance into his thrusts, and then it was over. He slumped against her afterward, wrapping his arms around her, planting another kiss on her neck.

"Feeling emotionally involved yet?" he asked.

She laughed softly. "Very much."

She wriggled beneath him, not insistently, but almost as a question. He let go of her and backed away to let her turn around and face him. She looked so deliciously fucked – her chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the shirt he hadn't even bothered to take off, her hair a mess, her eyes still glazed over with pleasure – that he couldn't help but grin.

"Sorry about that," he said, making a twirling motion in the air with his index finger so she knew what he was referring to.

"Not a problem," she said. Then, "You haven't even taken off your shirt."

He shrugged. "Not necessary."

"I think it is," she said, reaching out to unbutton it. She looked down at his shirt as she did so, her fingers flying over the buttons. "I _was_ angry," she admitted quietly. "I'm sorry. That was stupid of me."

"Yeah, it was." He shrugged out of the shirt, letting it fall to the floor. "How would you react if I –"

Her hands reached up to cover his mouth with two fingers, lightly, though she still didn't look up at him. "Shh," she said. "Don't say it."

_Don't say what?_ he wanted to ask. _How do you know what I was going to say?_

_How would you react if I acted jealous every time you came back to me after spending a night with Weasley?_

"It was stupid," she said again, apparently very absorbed by what she was doing – dragging her fingers across his chest, then over his shoulders and down his arms, and then right back up again. "I know that. Please don't make this difficult."

"Right, because I'm the one who always makes things difficult."

"Please," she said. "I love you."

He was silent for a long time. Was talking 'making things difficult'? He thought that was what she meant, so he remained quiet. She seemed to relax, running her hands up and down his body with light, teasing touches, occasionally leaning forward to kiss his chest. He didn't do or say anything, but stayed there, silent and unmoving, as she tried to – to what, exactly? Make it up to him?

"Look at me," he breathed.

She did, and he realised with a jolt that her pupils were still dilated with arousal. She gave the most indecent of smiles – almost a smirk – as she slid down his body slowly, her eyes never leaving his for even a second. She trailed kisses down his torso, across his upper thigh, then on his inner thigh.

And then there was fire.

* * *

When it was over, he said, slightly out of breath, "I feel – like I'm – nineteen again."

"I don't remember anything like that happening when we were nineteen. It was all very tame back then, considering."

* * *

Scorpius was Sorted into Slytherin. Draco should have been proud. Unfortunately, Albus Potter also ended up in Slytherin, and he and Scorpius struck up an immediate friendship. Rose, who was a Gryffindor, apparently came attached with the Potter boy, because soon Scorpius was writing home about his _two_ new friends.

Draco really was never going to live it down.

* * *

**I couldn't resist adding that last bit.**

**Please drop a review telling me what you think. Only three more chapters to go... It'll be over in less than two weeks. Next chapter is called... Eleventh-Hour Decision. :)**


	12. Midnight

**Midnight**

* * *

He met Rose and Hugo six months after Hermione and Weasley's official separation (not yet a divorce) entirely by accident.

Hermione seemed set on protecting her children from the truth, which was the most stupid thing Draco had ever heard. What about _his_ child? Hermione had moved in at Malfoy Manor almost immediately, and Scorpius didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, he rather liked the idea of having a war hero living in the same house as him, because he had a lot of questions about that period and Hermione was, to him, as good as a living, thinking history book. He _had_ been a little surprised when he came home for Christmas and found her there, but all in all, he had taken it well.

But it was _different_ for Scorpius, Hermione said. He had grown up with divorced parents. Rose and Hugo would be more sensitive. She didn't want them to imagine that their mother had had an affair with another man; what kind of stilted family ideal would she be giving them? _"A real one,"_ Draco had said, but Hermione wasn't having it. She was so stubborn about it that Draco had once, in a fit of anger, implied that when she finally divorced Weasley she should also divorce from her children, because they were holding her back as much as her husband was. Hermione hadn't spoken to him for three days after that.

She was being ridiculous. It wasn't like the kids didn't already _know_ something was wrong. Their mother wasn't living at home anymore. She and their father sent Rose separate owls at Hogwarts. They had started negotiations for a divorce. Someday they would probably meet someone else and begin a relationship, and Hermione's kids weren't so young that they wouldn't understand that. That said, Draco had agreed to go along with her delusion. The fact that she had left Weasley and moved in with him would be enough, for the moment.

So it really _was_ an accident when he met Rose. It wasn't like he'd been actively looking for her. He _was_ curious about her, though, because his son seemed to like her very much. His son. And a Weasley. He was never going to be able to wrap his head around the idea.

He saw the girl in Diagon Alley. And the boy, too, but he was less memorable; he seemed almost invisible beside his sister's bright fire. It was summer, so they weren't at Hogwarts. Rose would be twelve, a few months older than Scorpius, and Hugo was – ten? Apparently that was old enough for them to walk through Diagon Alley by themselves. After all, their father worked at one of the shops there, the joke shop, so he was never very far away. Draco was there to buy something for Scorpius' birthday. _They_ were there to wander around looking at the stalls. He didn't even notice them at first. He felt something brush by and saw two children push past him to another stall and felt only a vague irritation. But when he heard the high, clear laughter erupting from the girl's lips, he turned around for a second look. Red hair. Red hair, the both of them, and they looked to be about the right age, too...

The girl stopped laughing, feeling his eyes on her, and looked straight at him. A strange expression came over her. Then she took her brother's hand and walked up to Draco, stopping only when she was a foot away, nose pointed in the air as she looked up at him haughtily. He knew there was only one person she could be.

She was tall for her age, taller than Scorpius, and bony, with long red hair tangled by the wind. Her pale, thin face made her look almost boyish, and there was something in her expression that hinted at a concealed fierceness behind the lack of muscle. Her eyes and jaw were all Hermione, but there was nothing of her mother's gentleness there. Rose Weasley looked tough as boots, and Draco could definitely understand what Scorpius saw in her.

"Hello, Rose," he said.

"You're him," Rose said flatly, not bothering with a hello. "The one mum is seeing now that she's left Dad."

He was taken aback by the matter-of-fact way she said it. It wasn't even a question. She was sure of what she was saying.

"Scorpius told me," Rose said when he just stared. "You look just like him. You're his dad."

That figured. He'd sworn the little guy to secrecy, but it seemed that water was thicker than blood in this case. Then again, if she had turned that flat stare on Scorpius for longer than a minute, it was no wonder the boy had cracked. But there was something else there, too, a softening in her expression when she mentioned Scorpius. Draco fought not to smile.

"It started before, though, didn't it? You're the _reason_ she left. The cause, not the effect."

He tried to keep his voice steady. "Did Scorpius tell you that, too?"

"No. He doesn't know." Her gaze was cool, appraising. "I guessed."

"You're perceptive."

"I know."

She stared at him so hard that he began to feel uncomfortable. "How long?"

"What?"

"How long have you know her?"

He laughed. "Since forever. We went to school together. But we didn't like each other much back then. It changed after the war."

"What changed?"

He met her gaze steadily. "I changed. My perception of the world changed. And your mother was there to see it and help me through it. She was the first one who really believed that I could change."

"I hate you."

He flinched, but nodded again. "I can understand that."

"You've ruined _everything_," Rose said. "Why did you do it?"

He shrugged. "You'll have to ask your mother that, Rose."

"Are you saying she –"

"I'm not saying anything," he said abruptly. "Talk to her, if you must know. It's obvious there's nothing I can say to you which you won't dislike. I'm not the right person for this conversation. Ask your mother."

He turned and walked away from those haunting, accusing eyes. Hermione's eyes, but cold and unforgiving.

* * *

"Maybe you're right. Maybe we should tell the kids," Hermione said that night when she came into his room. _Their_ room.

He sat up in his chair and looked up from the book he had been reading, surprised. His earlier conversation with Rose was still fresh in his mind. The timing was too good, almost surreal.

"What changed your mind?"

"I thought it through," she said simply, closing the door behind her. "And I think you're right. They have a right to know. I'm not doing them any good by lying to them."

"They already know."

"Mine don't."

Draco shook his head slowly. "You know they do. They'll get over it. The worst bit for Rose is that now she can't go after Scorpius because it'd be gross." He shrugs. "At least that's how Scorpius put it. You know how kids are."

"My daughter has a crush on your son?"

Draco laughed. "You say that like it's surprising." He stood up and walked over to her, reaching out to lightly touch her cheek. _Those eyes..._ "She does take after you, after all."

"Well, yes, but..." Hermione contemplated this for a second. "It seems kind of strange."

"Scorpius thinks so, too. But stranger things have happened," Draco said. "Besides, you like my son."

"He's adorable," Hermione agreed. "I've just put him to bed. Some days I think he likes me more than my own do."

Draco didn't know what to say to that. "I think they should go for it while they're still young. I mean, they like each other, and they know they do. Maybe they'll figure it out earlier than we did."

"You mean maybe they'll make less of a mess out of it than we did?" Hermione laughed. "Yes, maybe. If your son's less of an idiot than you were."

"And if your daughter is less of a coward than _you_ were."

"And if they don't get married to someone else."

"Small chance of that ever happening," Draco said. "She's completely smitten and knows it. Unlike someone I know, who tried to close her eyes on her feelings until it was too late."

"I knew I was 'smitten.' I just didn't want to admit it. Besides, it's never too late," Hermione said, and a soft smile illuminated her expression. "It was late, but not _too_ late."

"Is it really?" he said softly.

"Is what really?" she asked, puzzled.

"Is it really never too late?"

"Yes, it really is," she said, and wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him into a kiss. "We're proof of that."

They exchanged a second kiss, soft and sweet and light as air. And:

"Then marry me," he said when they broke apart.

"No," Hermione said quickly.

Too quickly.

* * *

The word lingered in the air between them, heavy and unexpected.

Draco's hands dropped from her neck to his sides, and he stepped back. Something like hurt flashed in his expression, but it soon disappeared, leaving only a dull stare.

"Oh, Merlin – Draco, I didn't mean..."

Her voice trailed off, because she wasn't sure how to express herself. Words failed Hermione Granger, brightest witch of her age. At least until Draco looked away from her and gave a careless shrug.

"You know, for some reason, I was expecting that one."

Hermione took a step toward him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, dragging him toward her until their eyes were only inches apart.

"It's not that I don't love you enough," she said, pouring her conviction into her voice, willing him to believe her. "I do. I love you, Draco. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

"But?"

"But... I won't marry you. Once was enough for me. It's not too late, Draco, but it's still too early."

"One mistake," he said, and his warm breath made her lips tingle, "and that's it? It's over?"

"It's not over," she said, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "It's only just begun."

He looked at her, his eyes narrowed and assessing. She _waited_, not knowing what she was waiting for, or why she was waiting, as his right hand rose to cover hers on his shirt. For a moment, she thought he would close the gap between them and kiss her again.

Then, suddenly, he jerked out of her grasp and backed away from her. Her breath caught in her throat and she reached out for him again, her hand trembling, but he pushed her outstretched arm away.

"Draco...?" she said uncertainly.

"What do you mean, it's just begun?" he asked. "It began _years_ ago, Hermione. Don't you think it's time for the conclusion?"

"The conclusion?" she repeated, confused. "What do you mean?"

"The conclusion, Hermione, or the end. Whatever you want to call it."

She shook her head, stunned. "Wait. Are you breaking up with me?"

"You can't be serious," he snapped. He scanned her expression and shook his head. "How dense can a person be? You think –" He blew out a long sigh. "I'm asking you to trust me, not leave me."

"Oh."

"Why?" he asked. "Why can't you just leave the past behind? That part of your life is _over_. Tell me it's over, Hermione."

She was silent.

"_Tell me._"

"It is over," she said. "You know that and I know that. And I'm _sorry_. But I can't –"

"Never mind," Draco said, cutting her off with a wave of his hand.

His entire posture changed, going from a ball of carefully controlled energy to something completely relaxed and carefree. He wanted her to drop the matter entirely, as though he just didn't care anymore. And that stung.

"Forget it," he said. "Like I said, I expected it. You'll never change, will you? It's part of what I like about you, I suppose. What I love about you."

"I do love you, you know."

"I know." He smiled. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe that."


End file.
